


Robert's Rebellion: Writ in Blood

by zzbkit4



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Rhaegar won, Canon Divergence - Robert's Rebellion, Canon-Typical Violence, Classism, F/M, Gen, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Lannister ambition, Pre-Canon, Slow Burn, Trying to look at Robert's Rebellion through many eyes, adding ladies in waiting cause grrm doesnt, lots and lots of sieges, martell anger, martells roasting rhaegar, no rape but mention of the idea of rape, ridiculously long author notes, so slow you dont even know what romance will make its way in here yet
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-10
Updated: 2018-10-27
Packaged: 2018-12-26 03:26:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 28
Words: 128,512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12050325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zzbkit4/pseuds/zzbkit4
Summary: "I prefer my history dead. Dead history is writ in ink, the living sort in blood."A Feast for Crows, Chapter 11Robert Baratheon died quickly--his rebellion, less so. The scattered army of the Trident knows better than bend a knee and pray for a dragon's mercy. And so begins the fight for scraps between the royalists and the rebels...





	1. Catelyn

**Author's Note:**

> Hello all. This is my first ever fanfiction. I was inspired to write it when playing Crusader Kings II AGOT mod. I will be updating the tags as I go as more characters gain precedence. This is not a purely romantic story, but I will be examining how the established characters would react to the events of a failed Robert's Rebellion. Catelyn Tully Stark is initially the primary character, but other characters will gain importance as the story unfolds, like Doran, Oberyn, and Elia Martell, Rhaegar Targaryen, Lyanna Stark, Stannis and Renly Baratheon, Cersei and Jaime Lannister, etc. Thus, although it is not a purely romantic story, be warned that there will feature those relationships that are in canon as well as new (almost crack) ships due to diverging canon. My intent is to portray these characters to the best of my ability. 
> 
> Disclaimer before reading: canon diverges with Rhaegar killing Robert on the Trident. However, I also am going to save a couple people (women) from dying before they tell any story like they do in canon. Thus, expect to see Rhaella Targaryen learn of her son's victories, Lyanna Stark learn of her brother's death, and the Unnamed Princess of Dorne deal with her daughter's shame.

“He’s growing so fast,” Evelyn Mallister said, pulling on the babe’s hand as Catelyn held him to her breast. “Though he would grow faster if you had a wet nurse,” she scolded playfully. Her brown hair was pulled back from her face in a braid and knotted elegantly at the base of her neck. 

“You know there wasn’t time before the fighting started,” Catelyn replied. She knew a lady as highborn as herself should have a wet nurse, but she rather enjoyed holding him as he suckled at her breast. His little fists were surprisingly strong, whether they grasped at fingers or hair. He had taught her to wear her hair pulled out of reach after he yanked a tuft of auburn out with his fat fist. Yet even still, he was so small. She could hardly imagine that one day he would be bigger than her—big enough to swing a sword and ride into battle. Her thoughts drifted to whatever battle must surely be happening. Mother have mercy on them all. They are all sons, every one, sons whose mothers can no longer hold them in their arms to protect them. She held her own son closer. _I can protect you now, sweet babe _, she thought.__

__Lady Evelyn smiled at the babe, and then at Catelyn. Lysa stared longingly at the child. “When he’s finished, would you like to hold him?” Catelyn offered, noting Lysa’s forlorn look._ _

__Lysa’s face lit up. “If it please you,” she said politely, failing to hide her excitement._ _

__“You shouldn’t ask Cat, you should ask the babe. He is the heir to Winterfell,” Lady Evelyn teased, and stood up to curtsy before Catelyn and the babe. “My Lord of Stark,” she said seriously, “if it please you, your lady aunt should like your permission to hold your lordly person in her two arms, and perhaps tickle you as well.” Lysa giggled uncontrollably as she stood up to curtsy as well._ _

__“His Lordship is tending to other matters of state at the moment, but I shall alert you when his business is concluded,” Catelyn replied with a smile. She always enjoyed Lady Evelyn ever since she came to Riverrun a year past when she married Ser Desmond, the master-at-arms. They had never had any other ladies before her near their age, and Lady Evelyn was only a year her elder. Before it was only she and Lysa and Edmure, and Petyr as well, she supposed, playing games by the river. But now Petyr was gone, and her father and uncle, and most the other men in Riverrun. But Evelyn was still here, and she was happy for her company. Even in war’s bleakest days, Evelyn could always make her smile and Lysa giggle._ _

__“It’s a good thing he’s the only babe in Riverrun. If there were more, when someone would say ‘the babe’ I wouldn’t know which child they were speaking of,” said Evelyn._ _

__“Oh hush,” replied Catelyn. “I’m not naming him until his father returns, and you know that. I would be a poor wife if I named my child instead of my husband.”_ _

__“My mother named me,” she retorted._ _

__“You are her fourth child,” Catelyn raised her eyebrows. “And your mother wanted to name you after your father’s mother?”_ _

__“Yes, Catelyn, she did,” she huffed. “My grandmother Evelyn was always cold to my mother. So my mother let the entire household know she was naming the child, only to name it for my grandmother. Now they are close as you and I, and all because of me,” she smiled mischievously._ _

__“How have you never told us that before, Evelyn?” Lysa demanded._ _

__“I don’t know. I just never thought to.”_ _

__Catelyn looked at her skeptically._ _

__“I’m not lying!” Evelyn said defensively. Catelyn raised her eyebrows. “I’m not! It’s not so strange as you think. I simply tire of calling the babe ‘the babe.’” She gestured to the babe in Catelyn’s arms._ _

__“Then call him the heir to Winterfell. Such a name suited you earlier,” Catelyn replied as she handed the heir of Winterfell to Lysa. Evelyn sighed and walked towards Catelyn’s wardrobe to help her dress. They argued briefly over what outfit Catelyn should wear, but Catelyn quickly choose the dress Evelyn suggested. She knew the fashions of King’s Landing better than Catelyn ever would and seemed to have a new dress every fortnight._ _

__“This one matches your eyes,” Evelyn said as watched the maids tighten Catelyn’s corset. It was her favorite dress that she could still fit into after the pregnancy. She loved the embroidery around the neckline best, and Evelyn was right, it did bring out her eyes. “I can’t believe you are so thin so quickly. One could hardly know you had just given birth the way you run about, unless they saw the babe in your arms. My good-sister was fat for a year after she gave birth to Mikel.”_ _

__“Evelyn!” Catelyn scolded, though she couldn’t help but giggle along with Lysa. Lady Sella had grown large with her last pregnancy and refused to slim, insisting that she had given her husband enough heirs and didn’t want him visiting her bed anymore unless she could eat as many sweets as she desired._ _

__“She’s twice your age, I know, I know,” she helped Catelyn step into the dress and let Catelyn’s maid Tanda tie it as Catelyn looked in the mirror. Catelyn laughed at how disheveled her hair was. Evelyn looked to see what she was laughing at and laughed as well. “I can brush it out for you as well. I love brushing your hair, it’s so soft and shiny, like Lysa’s. I would brush Edmure’s too if he let me.”_ _

__“I can call him in and ask him,” said Cat. Edmure would be drilling with sword under Ser Ryger, angry he wasn’t allowed to fight with father and Uncle Brynden. “Can you do my hair like yours? I’ve never seen it before.”_ _

__“I made it myself. I hoped you liked it. It’s elegant but not too ostentatious, which I know you prefer.” Catelyn’s maid Tanda watched as Evelyn did Catelyn’s hair, and assured Catelyn she could do it herself. The other servants brought in tea and nuts and fish, and they all sipped away. Catelyn ate little, for suddenly her stomach felt ill at ease. It’s only the babe, she reminded herself, forgetting she had birthed the child near a fortnight past. Was she so worried for her son that it pained her to set him down, even for a moment? She watched Lysa hold the babe carefully in her arms. He’s safe and happy, she scolded her stomach, yet even still, she could not rid herself of the ominous feeling._ _

__Catelyn made sure to laugh at all Evelyn’s jokes, but all the while her fear grew. Her body was braced as if the doom of Valyria reigned around her, yet nothing happened. Unable to keep still, she stood up and went to the window. Evelyn stopped her anecdote about the cook and asked, “Is something amiss?”_ _

__Catelyn took a moment to answer. She gazed out the window, searching for something she could not name, and saw only the rushing river and the land beyond, forests and green hills and even a small village in the distance. Less than a year ago it had been covered with banners of Mallister and Piper, Blackwood and Bracken, men loyal to her father and the North and the Vale. She remembered her excitement as all the banners amassed at Riverrun, a sight she had never seen before. She had tried to pretend they had all come to honor her wedding, not to ride off to blood and battle. Yet it had all been wrong. The men were restless, the lords were angry, and her husband wrong. And how Lysa had cried! For three nights before their lord husbands were to arrive and wed them, Lysa had sobbed and refused to eat. Catelyn heard her crying at night, and went to comfort her only to be raged at. “It’s not fair! You marry Brandon and I get some old fat man, older than father, older than everyone!” she had screamed._ _

__“I won’t wed Brandon,” Catelyn had said calmly._ _

__“No, you won’t! Because he’s dead! He’s dead and he deserved to die!” she had screeched. Her eyes were red and bloodshot and her malice had scared Catelyn. “And you should too for loving him!” Catelyn had slapped her and ran back to her room, choking back tears. Only when she had shooed out her servants and bolted the door did she cry in earnest. Whether for Brandon or Lysa or herself, she still did not know. Catelyn had returned the next night composed, entreating her sister to act with the honor befitting a lady of House Tully. “Whatever our own feelings, we must do our duty. It is a great match Lysa. Father is distressed you aren’t pleased and torment yourself so. But if you act like a child when our guests arrive, Father will be wroth.” Yet that had only made her cry harder._ _

__The night before the lords of the North and the Vale were to arrive, Catelyn returned to Lysa’s room, to find her lying in bed sniffing quietly. Catelyn had crawled into bed with her like they did when they were young, and hugged her close. After several moments in the dark, Lysa said in a flat voice, “Forgive me for yelling, Cat.” Catelyn kissed her and they quietly drifted to sleep in each other’s arms as they had when they were small._ _

__It seemed so empty now, so sad and lonely, all the fields and valleys empty with only muddy ruts to give witness to the men who had camped there over a year past. “It’s nothing,” Catelyn lied, continuing to gaze out the window. Evelyn’s story puttered out, and she picked up her needlework and stitched in silence. Occasionally she would say a word or two to Lysa, but Catelyn didn’t listen. She was breathing in the crisp, cool air that still smelled of winter, though a raven had come soon after her babe was born declaring it at an end._ _

__An old letter was lying on her desk, and she picked it up and re-read it. “The battle has ended indecisively,” it read. “Lord Jon Connignton organized a swift retreat, but not before we suffered grave casualties. Three Stormlords taken captive by the royalists. Lord Connington slew Ser Denys Arryn, and your father slew both Ser Harys and Ser Gast but suffered an injury himself. The wound is on the outer left thigh and deep, but Lord Hoster continues to lead the command. We march North.” Two months had passed since a rider appeared with the message. Ser Robin was with her when she read it, and seemed cheerful enough._ _

__“If your lord father can lead, that wound is only a scratch,” he had declared. She said the same to Lysa and Edmure, and they didn’t seem worried. Edmure was only jealous of all the glory father was getting, and wished he was squiring._ _

__She flipped through the book at her desk. You must be the Lady of Riverrun now, her father had told her when her mother died. Now her father was gone, and Edmure still just a boy; it was her job to take care of the castle and its people, and to see they want for nothing. They had enough food for just less than a year, if it was rationed properly. Riverrun was easy enough to hold during siege. It was smaller than her new husband’s great keep of Winterfell or her Uncle’s vast castle of Harrenhal, and took much fewer men to defend. She had two-hundred men at arms and five and ten knights to defend the castle, and that was all she needed. Yet more was needed in case of a siege besides food and men. She had no idea what Maester Vyman had in his stores, and should the castle come under attack he would need excess supplies if men were injured. She called in Ser Robin, the captain of the guard. He was utterly loyal to her father. When his cousin, the Lord of Willow Wood had sided with the Targaryens, he cursed the man a fool and a traitor. Catelyn wondered if Lord Ryger had said the same of Ser Robin. “Send word to Maester Vyman. Tell him I require an updated inventory of all his supplies, and an audience before he tutors Edmure.” He bowed and retreated at her command, just as he did when her father ruled Riverrun._ _

__Edmure was her father’s heir, and with their father gone the rule of the castle may have fallen to him, if he were older. He was a child still, and she had been the Lady of Riverrun since her mother died. It was up to her to see his education continue, even in the midst of war. One day he would be Lord of Riverrun, though she hoped that day was still far off. When the Maester arrived, she inquired about Edmure’s tutelage. He had grown more stubborn of late with their father away, and not studying as diligently as Maester Vyman would have liked. “All he wants to do is hear stories about knights, and he has become more restless than ever. Yesterday he did not even wash his hands or face before our lessons,” he said. That would not do. Catelyn thanked the Maester and assured him she would speak with Edmure._ _

__“He shall one day rule all Riverrun, and he must learn some duties cannot be neglected,” she assured him._ _

__She called in Utherydes Wayn and together pored over the other inventory. She had kept good record of all Riverrun’s expenses with Master Wayn’s help. She spent hours updating everything and meeting with all the masters of Riverrun. That is what her mother had done when she was lady of Riverrun. That had been a trial, for she had always hated numbers. She liked to play her lute and sing, read stories and histories and learn the families and lineages of all the great houses. When her father ruled from his seat, she would sit in his solar and embroider or read. Whenever he called in Maester Vyman to send a letter to his bannermen, he would ask often ask her advice. She would tell him what niceties they would appreciate most, condolences for illness or congratulations for births. "My Cat knows every member of every house in the Riverlands, great or small," he would brag to guests who thanked her for her appropriate concern._ _

__That was what a good lady wife must do, she knew. First and foremost, a lady is a diplomat for her house to her lord husband. When she was a girl that seemed more exciting than being mistress of his castle. Being a lady meant accepting her husband’s favors and serenades and gifts, impressing his bannermen and gaining influence over their wives by an irreproachable reputation. When her father had told her she was to marry Brandon Stark, she thanked him for such a good match. She knew the banners of the great noble houses of the North, but none of the smaller houses. She had made Maester Vyman test her repeatedly on all the families of the North until she was pleased. When she first met Brandon, she knew him on sight, along with all his companions. She had been so nervous, but that knowledge helped soothe her. "Courtesy is a woman’s armor," her Septa had told her. Maester Vyman had replied, "But courtesy is empty without knowledge."_ _

__Now she was ruling Riverrun in her father’s absence, and she was glad for all the hours she had made herself practice sums with Maester Vyman. Maester Vyman was a good man, and she sometimes missed all the hours she would spend with him as a girl, even though she had despised it at the time. Oftentimes after a lesson in numbers she would return to her chambers and cry. She hated feeling as though she was disappointing her father and failing as a daughter. But Maester Vyman had been patient. When she began to despair that she would never be a proper mistress, he would change back to letters and lineages and things that she loved, and soon she would feel better. Now, running the household seemed so natural and easy, remembering what a trial it had been felt strange._ _

__A knock came from her chamber door. Master Utherydes stopped talking, and the man-at-arms outside her door called, “Ser Desmond desires an audience, my lady.” Catelyn summoned him in._ _

__Ser Desmond strode in briskly, and bowed. “My ladies,” he said, nodding to Lysa and Evelyn. He nodded at Utherydes, who was sitting with Catelyn, and Ser Robin, who was standing attentively behind her._ _

__“Lady Catelyn,” he said. His voice was quick and clear, and the urgency in his brown eyes slightly alarmed her._ _

__“Master Utherydes, may we continue this matter tomorrow?” she said politely. As he collected his things, she hurriedly told Tanda to take her babe to rest. She was about to dismiss Lysa and Evelyn, but Ser Desmond interrupted her._ _

__“No matter, my lady. They may stay. We request you on the battlements.”_ _

__“Certainly, ser. Pardon me, Lady Evelyn, Lady Lysa.” Ser Desmond held the door for her and followed her out, and Ser Robin followed. She turned right, but had not gone more than a few paces before Ser Desmond stopped her._ _

__“The Western battlements, my lady,” he said._ _

__The West? She had expected a rider from the Southeast riding towards Riverrun to tell of her father’s victory, or a great host led by Prince Rhaegar to signal his defeat. She had not expected anything from the West. Lord Tywin had stayed silent during the war so far, and though she had heard he was gathering a host, no one in the Seven Kingdoms was sure who he planned to march against. _Whoever is losing _, a voice whispered in her ear. _No, we haven’t lost _, she argued. _Not yet. _________

________“Lord Tywin?” she asked. Her voice didn’t sound scared, at least._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________“We cannot say, but who else? If he marched onto Riverland soil, we should have gotten a raven from Wayfarer’s Rest, my lady.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________“Maester Vyman has not alerted me of any message. What can you see from the battlements?”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________“Smoke, my lady. I could see small pillars on the horizon, but I can smell a battle from 100 leagues away. Lord Tywin has joined the Mad King, I’ll wager my left eye on it.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________“I never thought I would pray to the gods for you to lose an eye,” she said gravely. He let out a quick snort. “There have been no more riders from my lord father?” she asked, though she knew the answer, and the answer did not bode well._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________“None, my lady,” he said shortly._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________As they climbed to the top of the battlements, Catelyn’s fear increased with every step. She tried to be brave, but her father’s silence seemed more deafening than ever. Perhaps the rider got hurt, she tried to console herself. Perhaps another battle has not occurred, perhaps my father forgot to send word of his victory. Each comfort seemed feebler than the last. She reached the top step and burst into the world, the sky so big and blue it threatened to swallow her whole. She took a deep breath of fresh air only to have wood and cinders and smoke fill her lungs. Out along the horizon, smoke rose quickly, like some giant dragon waking from its slumber beneath the world. Whatever small pillars Ser Desmond had seen had crawled greedily up the sky, trying to touch the sun. “Mother have mercy,” Ser Desmond whistled._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________The great smoky beast had somehow calmed the fear she had harbored since the letter from her father arrived. Ignorance was the worst. Now she knew. They had lost, they had lost, they had lost. “Ser Desmond,” she said calmly, though her heart was in a panic. “Prepare for a siege.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________“If they are at Wayfarer’s Rest now, they can’t be more than a fortnight away,” said Ser Robin._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________“Less, I’d reckon. Any more than a week is a gift from the gods,” Ser Desmond said gravely._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________“My father may yet come,” she said, more sure than she felt._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________Ser Desmond twitched uncomfortably before saying stiffly, “Perhaps, my lady. But if Lord Tywin is burning the Riverlands—“_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________“Then we have suffered a great defeat.” She would know if her father was dead, and her husband too, would she not? She would feel it, surely? “My uncle says Lord Tywin resents mad King Aerys. He would only join his cause if he knew he must.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________“Perhaps he miscalculated. One defeat means little in the course of war,” replied Ser Robin, as optimistic as ever. Ser Desmond raised an eyebrow dubiously, but refrained from comment. Catelyn wished she were as hopeful as Ser Robin. Men-at-arms on the wall were listening, some faces looked worried, others fiercely determined._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________“Ser Desmond is right. We cannot expect my father to aid us, but we must hold Riverrun against all foes. We have enough food for man and beast for just under a year, if rationed carefully. Lord Tywin shall have miscalculated indeed if he thinks Riverrun can be taken by storm.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________“What are your commands, my lady?” Ser Robin asked._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________She considered a moment. How many times had she walked along these battlements, listening to her father tell how to defend it? “One week?” she asked Ser Desmond again. He nodded. “Send a few dozen men to fell the wood on the Northern bank and return it to the castle. On the third day, burn the forest for a few miles. I won’t have that lumber turned into arrows and siege ladders. How fares your archers?”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________“Fair to good. They train at archery every afternoon.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________“And morning?”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________“Mace and sword, my lady.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________“Archery only, if you advise it, Ser. They will have less time to use their sword on the top of the wall.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________“I agree, my lady.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________“And your supply of arrows?”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________“Plenty, but not inexhaustible, my lady.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________She nodded, deep in thought. Ser Robin set to sending men into the Whispering Wood, and she walked with Ser Desmond down to the training yard to give the men their orders. She stopped a man-at-arms once they reached the yard. “Send for my brother, Edmure. Tell him I await him in our father’s solar to prepare for a siege.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________After the men-at-arms began training with bow-and-arrow, Catelyn and Ser Desmond walked back to her father’s solar. Edmure was already waiting inside, looking both worried and excited. Maester Vyman had come with him, as he had just been tutoring him. “Cat, what’s happening?” Edmure said immediately. “Did you hear from father?”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________“We have no more news of father. There is an army approaching from the West—“_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________“Tywin Lannister?” he blurted. She looked at him sternly and he blushed._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________“It is rude to interrupt, Edmure,” she said._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________“I’m sorry,” he mumbled apologetically._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________“Should anything happen to father, you shall be Lord of Riverrun. I think it is important for you to help us prepare for a siege. The Lord of Riverrun should not disrespect his subjects with childish outbursts,” she said gravely. He was only a boy, but when war came to your doorstep, childhood had time enough. Boys only a little older than he were fighting and dying. She knew it was hard, but he must act the man if he wanted to live long enough to become one._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________“I won’t interrupt again,” he said solemnly. “I shall be a good lord. Like father.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________“I know you will,” she said with an encouraging smile. Then she flattened out the map on the desk. “Ser Desmond. My father named you castellan of Riverrun. How best should we use our time to prepare against Lord Tywin?”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________“If it is truly Lord Tywin, are we sure he will try to seize Riverrun? Perhaps he will just march by, to aide Prince Rhaegar’s host,” Maester Vyman said._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________“Perhaps,” Ser Desmond considered briefly. Then he added bitterly, “Through Tully land.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________“We do not have enough men to stop his crossing. We should concern ourselves with the defense of Riverrun, for that is what the gods have given us to change the fate of,” Catelyn said. Edmure eyes darted back and forth between the adults._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________“How many men does he have?” Maester Vyman inquired._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________“We cannot say. We should send riders to scout, my lady, and the fastest horses. We cannot be blind to Tywin as we are to Rhaegar.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________She agreed and called in a man-at-arms to relay the message. “Two men should suffice. Send Nerris and Androw. Tell them to prepare for their journey with haste. I wish them out of Riverrun by mid-day,” she commanded him._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________They had been safely ensconced in Riverrun for over a year, protected from war and cold, but now that an army bore down on them Catelyn found that there was much to do. The castle was in a frenzy preparing for the siege. Catelyn spent most of their first of their last days of certain safety walking along the battlements and around the castle with Ser Desmond, Ser Robin, and Edmure. The first and greatest issue was the sluice gate. Riverrun’s defenses were formidable; when the sluice gate was open the castle was on an island, and any attacks must be made from the bottom of a shoddily coonstructed boat. However, with the long winter, the river had frozen to thick ice, and man and siege ladders and towers could walk across it. They watched in despair as men walked with relative ease across the ice and put their hand on the thick castle walls. The ice was slippery though, even in thick boots the men were sliding._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________“It’s melting, for sure, but not fast enough,” Ser Robin said. He then suggested they send men up river to begin axing a section to bits. “If we can free the river, she’ll do the rest of the work for us. The ice isn’t too thick. She’s ready for spring.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________“Most like we don’t have enough time, ser,” Ser Desmond retorted. “But that may be the only choice.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________“No, it’s not,” Catelyn said, surprising herself. “Why rid ourselves of the ice?”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________Ser Robin and Ser Desmond looked confused. “My lady. . .” said the former questioningly._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________“Pardon, sers. I mean, why rid ourselves of the ice, when we can make it work for us?”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _


	2. Catelyn

On the third day, Nerris returned at dawn to say that it was indeed Lord Tywin, with a host he estimated 10,000 strong, saying, “What sorta tactician Lord Tywin is I can’t say, milady, but he knows how to move an army fast from there to here.” The forest was still burning and filling the white sky with black smoke. Catelyn had given every man, woman, and child a job within Riverrun to prepare. Most men-at-arms had spent all daylight hours carefully drilling holes into the water surrounding Riverrun, as if ice fishing. She had Lysa and Evelyn work tirelessly to finish embroidering a great banner showing the warrior in Tully colors with a likeness to her father that she had started when he rode South. Throughout the castle, rumors ran amok. She heard that Prince Rhaegar had turned into a dragon, and burnt Lord Tully alive, then she heard shortly after that the Stormlord had slew Prince Rhaegar and taken the Iron Throne for himself. She had never felt more in the dark. All she knew for certain was that Wayfarer’s Rest was put to the torch by Lannisters, and that the last she knew of her father was he was wounded but still leading. The days flew by even as Catelyn tried to slow them down to prepare, and before she knew it, a week was gone.

That evening, she had a quiet dinner with Lysa and Edmure. They were all subdued and lost in their own thoughts. _This time tomorrow, we shall be eating supper imprisoned in our own castle._ She hardly had an appetite, which she supposed was good. _More food for the siege._ She did not know if her father or uncle or husband were dead, but as soon as the thought passed through her brain she shoved it out of sight. _I must not dwell on them. I cannot help them. It is my family here I can help._ Lysa and Edmure were alive, and her sweet little son, and that gave her comfort. That gave her strength. _I would give my life for them, if I must,_ she thought determinedly. _This is our home, and I will not see it taken from us._

__________A knock came from the door. “It is Ser Robin, my lady,” the guard said._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________“Send him in,” Catelyn replied, wiping her hands. Lysa looked up from her food worriedly._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________Ser Robin came in hurriedly and knelt. “Pardons, my lord, my lady, my lady,” he said, nodding at each in turn. “Some smallfolk have arrived at the gates, requesting sanctuary. They have fled from the West. I have shut the gates, but many linger on the drawbridge.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________“You shut the gates?” said Edmure incredulously. “They’re our people. They’re just afraid, that’s all. You should open the gates.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

___________Oh, my sweet Edmure. Sweet silly Edmure._ “Edmure, we are about to be under siege. We cannot feed ourselves and all the smallfolk we wish.”__ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________“They are our people. A good lord protects his people,” he insisted stubbornly. The way he called himself lord chilled her. _He fears father is dead_ , she realized. But then he was her little brother again as he begged, “Please, Cat. Please let them in.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________She sighed in relief. So long as he looked to her for permission, that meant her father was alive. “How many people?” she asked Ser Robin._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________“Two score, my lady. Mostly men and women, but a few children.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________That was not so many. More would come, to be sure. Still, if she were heir she would not let any in._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________“That’s not too many, Cat. Please, please, please!” Edmure said enthusiastically._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________“A good lord would not beg, Edmure,” she said patiently, waiting for his reply._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________He looked sheepish. He considered for a moment before saying slowly, “He would. . .command?”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________“Among equals, he must negotiate,” she said and he nodded. He must learn, but the lesson need not be too hard. He was only nine, after all. “So we compromise. We let these people in, but afterwards we shut the gates to any more.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________“That sounds fair,” he said regally. She then looked pointedly at Ser Robin, and nodded at Edmure. “Oh! Ser Robin. Open the gates and let them in.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________Ser Robin bowed and retreated, a small smile playing at his lips. Once they were finished eating, Catelyn led her siblings to the courtyard, so the smallfolk may see them. They were huddled in groups, looking cold, hungry, and frightened. The inhabitants of the castle watched them wearily. As they jostled into the courtyard carrying their belongings in sacks or carts, a baby wailed with lungs three times its size, drowning out most else. Catelyn insisted they come inside the empty great hall to warm themselves. She still thought it unwise to let them in the castle, but that door had already been opened. They walked into the great hall with faces filled with wonder. She stood between Edmure and Ser Robin as she gave them bread and salt and granted them the formal protection of Riverrun. Each man, woman, and child knelt low before them. She instructed Ser Robin to make a list of their names and professions and an inventory of all their possessions to give her before he retired._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________She slept restlessly that night, though her little babe slept soundly enough beside her, his fat little fist around her finger. She lay in bed over an hour before dawn, unable to sleep, yet unwilling to move and upset her sweet babe. He looked so peaceful, and if Nerris was wrong it may be his last peaceful night of sleep. It was the hardest thing in the world to get out of bed and leave him._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________She had not let her restless night go to waste. After she had perused the inventory of items, she sent the list to Maester Vyman should he later find something necessary among it. The list of professions was much more useful. If they were to find food and safety behind her father’s walls, they would help defend them as well. The ropemaker, fletcher, and blacksmith were useful enough. A father and his two sons were coopers, and had brought with them two carts full of barrels. She puzzled half the night was use those could be. She thought perhaps they could be brought to the battlements with the large rocks and boulders to drop, but empty they were useless. They did not have enough oil to fill all of them, and simply filling them with water may knock a man of a siege ladder or leave a bruise, but leaving bruises do not win battles. She resolved to ask Ser Desmond._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________It was still dark when she called her maids in to help her dress and fix her hair. Three of the peasant girls were clean and young enough to learn to be a lady’s maid, so Catelyn had them scrubbed and sent to attend Evelyn and Lysa. Tanda and Elodie helped her dress in Tully blue and fix her hair. Oftentimes she spoke to them, but her anxious mind was elsewhere, so they helped her in silence. The new maid that Catelyn had taken was only a child-woman, though Catelyn hardly paid any mind to her. She looked so frightened of angering Catelyn that she either stood helplessly watching (which Elodie tutted) or asked too many questions. Perhaps she should feel sorry for the child, but Catelyn had far too much to worry about without a skinny peasant incessantly talking. Her hair was taking twice as long as usual with the distractions that Catelyn found her mouth thinning in annoyance. When the girl knocked a bottle of perfume onto Catelyn’s lap, staining her dress with the contents, she jumped up with a startled cry. Unfortunately her sudden movement caused Tanda to stab her scalp with the pin meant to secure her hair. The girl Daisy just stood there apologizing while Elodie, quick as a cat, grabbed the bottle and corked it. Catelyn stood up, furious, as Tanda fussed about her and Elodie inspected the damage to the dress. _My dress!_ She despaired. _My dress, my plan, ruined, ruined! How could she hold Riverrun if no one did what they were told? How could she hold Riverrun? How?_ All the stress and worry that had been steadily filling her like a river had finally broken through the dam and she found her voice rising._____ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________________“You’ve ruined my dress! I’ve let you ungrateful little girl into my father’s castle, right before a siege, mind you, and this is how you repay me? Lord Tywin is hours away, and you disrespect me so?”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________________“I’m sorry, milady, I didn’t mean no offense, truly—“_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________________Catelyn didn’t know what angered her more, a lowborn girl interrupting her or the fact that her voice was choking up. “Can you clean this? Or dye it? Or must I do that for you as well?”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________________The girl stopped bleating, her eyes wide and scared. _I cannot cry, I cannot_ , she thought, but her eyes were not obeying, so she quickly said with as much haughtiness as she could muster, “Elodie, take her to the kitchens. I am sure Grobor will find something her useful to do there she can’t ruin.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________________Elodie looked both embarrassed and angry that the child had shamed her in front of her mistress, but she nodded and said, “Yes, milady,” before taking Daisy aggressively by the arm and leading her from the room._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________________As soon as the door shut behind them, Catelyn fell back into the chair sobbing, her face in her hands. Unwanted, all the fearful thoughts she had been trying to ignore were poring into her head. Her father and uncle and husband were dead, she was a widow, her nameless son would be fatherless as well, and now a host of 10,000 men were bearing down on Riverrun, to make it pay for the crimes of her father. They had lost, so what hope was there? The Mad King would kill her like he did Brandon, alongside Lysa and Edmure and her little baby. She cried until she was gasping for breath, and then cried more.  
Then, suddenly, she had no more tears._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________________She lifted her head and saw Tanda kneeling besides her looking sympathetic. She patted her arm and said, “There, there, milady. Shall I fetch some tea?”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________________Catelyn nodded, her eyes red and raw. She felt foolish. Lord Tywin had not even arrived, and she had already cracked under strain. She had shamed her father and her house. It would not happen again. She saw clearly that the fate of her and her house now was inexplicably linked with holding Riverrun. So long as Riverrun was standing, there was hope. It was a faint hope, but it was all she had._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________________After she had her tea, Tanda helped her strip out of her gown and assured her she would have the stain scrubbed out. Then she donned her silken armor and her helm of amethysts. She rubbed lemon oil onto her eyes so that no one would see she had been crying. Riverrun would need an iron will to keep order and loyalty and discipline during the siege, and a crying woman on the battlements would do nothing good for morale. _I must be fierce, as fierce as my father.____ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________________She broke fast with Ser Desmond, Maester Vyman, Utherydes Wayn, and Ser Robin. First they discussed what need be done with the smallfolk, and Catelyn and Utherydes discussed tasks and inventory. Ser Desmond said that more smallfolk had arrived in the night and early morning but had been sent away._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________________“We don’t need more useless mouths to feed,” he said, to which Catelyn privately agreed. She was glad Edmure was still asleep so that he didn’t have an opportunity to protest their arrangement. Eventually, they got to the large cart of barrels and buckets. Ser Desmond agreed that filling them with water would be little use besides giving bruises and soaking men to the bone until Maester Vyman interjected with his meek voice that with winter still upon them, the water most like would freeze and feel just as painful as a rock to the helm. Catelyn could’ve kissed him for his common sense that she had not considered, as this winter was the coldest she had ever known._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________________As the castle woke and got to work, Catelyn pulled Maester Vyman aside. “You sent the ravens to warn of Lord Tywin’s march? Have you heard any reply?”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________________“Yes, my lady, as you commanded. I sent ravens to all the lords of your father’s allies. I’ve had differing reports, but all those agree that Prince Rhaegar met Lord Hoster, Lord Eddard, Lord Jon, and Lord Robert at the ford by the crossroads. Your great aunt Lady Shella sent word that Rhaegar’s host is north of Harrenhal and passed through her lands heading north nigh a week ago. They have not returned South, but she has received riders who tell her that a great battle was fought on the banks of the Trident. Two of her sons, Ser Tommard and Ser Charles, were slain, and her husband taken captive. She does not know the fate our your lord father, Lord Hoster, my lady. . .One of the riders said he was slain by Ser Jonothor Darry of the Kingsguard, while another said he was taken hostage by Prince Rhaegar himself.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________________Catelyn felt her heart grow numb. If her father was taken hostage, he would be killed for a traitor like Brandon. She felt herself feel sick. Better to die in battle. . .there was honor in that death, at least. “Send a reply to Lady Whent. Tell her our hearts and prayers are with her brave sons,” she said, in a daze._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________________“Yes my lady. . .We cannot know for certain, but either way it is not good. The castellan of Atranta, little Lord Roote, their riders all say the same. Lord Robert met Prince Rhaegar in single combat and was slain. When he fell, the vanguard collapsed and our men scattered. If your Father or Lord Eddard or Lord Jon survived, they may have been able to organize a retreat. We cannot know.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________________Catelyn felt at a loss. Peace was the only way, but how? They could not win. If Lord Eddard or Lord Jon had survived and managed to corral men into an organized retreat, they surely could secure their lands at Moat Cailin and the Bloody Gate. Brandon had told her ages ago that Moat Cailin could stop an army of 10,000 with only fifty men. That did not help Catelyn and the Riverlands, which had no natural defensive border. Ser Stannis had been penned up in Storm’s End for several months already, if he had not surrendered or starved by now. Lord Stannis, now—she reminded herself, now that Robert Baratheon was dead. Lords Tyrell and Redwyne had joined the Targaryens sooner than Lord Tywin, but had done little to risk their own resources. Storm’s End was a formidable fortress—moreso than Riverrun—and if Robert’s brothers died by starvation, nothing would stop Lord Tyrell from seizing it for himself. _Lord Tywin was no different, was he?_ She realized with a chill, thinking of the Reynes and Tarbecks. She had said it just days before, that Lord Tywin would not side with Aerys unless he had to. . .unless he would gain something that made enduring Mad King Aerys worth it. Her father was dead or soon would be, and all his heirs inside a castle soon under seige. . ._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________________She would need to send Edmure away, and her baby as well if he could manage. He was too small to travel in such cold weather. . .and where would they go that was any less dangerous? Enemies surrounded them on either side. The safest route was North. If Edmure could get north of the Neck, he could be safe. She must send him to Seagard, and then to Moat Cailin if he could cross the Green Fork. Not at the Twins, who had not joined their banners to her father’s. Foolishly, she wished her father were there, or her uncle, to tell her what to do._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________________Catelyn voiced her plan to Ser Desmond and Maester Vypren. “If you keep all your jewels in the same purse, it only makes it easier for those who would seek to rob you. I would send my boy too, if I could, but my boy is too young to travel. Edmure must go, and quickly. He must have a guard, but not too many to drawn any attention.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________________“Ten men should suffice. What about Lady Lysa?”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________________“If I could, I would send Lysa to the Eyrie. Riding through war torn territory is risky enough, but Edmure can look like a squire. A noble woman would draw more attention, no?”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________________Ser Desmond considered. “Is she safer in this castle or on the road?”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

___________________I do not know, _Catelyn, thought. _What if I send them to their deaths? _“The castle,” she decided, though she wasn’t sure. “I trust a purse made of stone walls more than one made of ten knights.”____ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________________Catelyn woke Edmure herself, and explained that he was leaving Riverrun as soon as he was ready. He rubbed his eyes, his auburn hair tousled from sleep. His hair is too noticeable. She decided she would have one of his serving men help him dye it._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________________“I don’t understand. Leave? Why?”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________________“It is not safe here. Lord Tywin is coming. You are father’s heir, so you must leave,” she said gently, brushing his hair out of his face._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________________“Then. . .you will come too? And Lysa?”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________________“No, we must stay. I have to defend the castle. Father is not here, so I must.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________________“But I should help. I’m almost a man grown. I should stay, and you and Lysa should leave if it’s not safe.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________________Catelyn smiled sadly. “That’s why you have to go. You’re father’s heir, not Lysa and I. If the Riverrun falls, House Tully will still have hope if you are free.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________________He looked confused and tired, but at least he did not argue. It was hard enough for her, to send him away. “Where. . .where will I go?”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________________“North. I have sent ravens to Seagard. You’ll ride straight there.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________________He nodded obediently, and she kissed him on the forehead. “You are so brave. Father would be so proud.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> starring: Cat's classism! Don't worry, she will have to look it in the face before long...  
> Amateur hour: couldn't get all the italics to work.


	3. Catelyn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Peace is sweet, my lady … but on what terms? It is no good hammering your sword into a plowshare if you must forge it again on the morrow."  
>  _A Game of Thrones _, Catelyn XI__

It was late morning when the horses and men were ready to escort a chestnut haired Edmure to Seagard, but before Catelyn went down to the courtyard to approve the men and supplies, Maester Vyman came rushing into her solar, his jowls wobbling. 

“Edmure—Edmure has not left yet?” he said, gasping for breath.

“No, within the hour—Maester, what is wrong?” she said. Evelyn and Lysa who had been embroidering the banner were now looking up worriedly. Catelyn had not told anyone about the rumor of her father’s death or capture, and she did not intend to until she knew. “Come, sit with me, Maester,” she said, motioning him towards her so they could talk quietly. She didn’t know how much more bad news she could handle.

“I’ve had a raven, from Seagard,” he said, his voice soft and worried.

“Seagard? How?” Catelyn said, confused.

“Not about Edmure’s arrival, no, they won’t get that for another day or so. In response to my first letter, warning of Lord Tywin. Lady Mallister says the Ironborn have sailed, and have begun to raid along the coast of Ironman’s bay.”

It was as if the Maester had kicked her in the gut. “Like Lord Tywin and Lord Mace, they want to have their share of pickings from the losing side,” she said grimly. It was not surprising, but a blow all the same. “It seems Mad Aerys wins not through inspiring loyalty, but giving opportunity to beasts and carrion crows. Even the Dornish do not love him, for how Rhaegar treated Princess Elia. That means little to us, except that now we have an enemy on every side. Edmure must stay at Riverrun. It may not be safe here, but I will not see the heir of Riverrun become the thrall of some illborn pirate.”

That night Catelyn threw a modest feast to raise morale. Their father’s seat was left empty and the hall was full, for much of the castle, including the smallfolk, had taken seats inside. There were even three bards that had been travelling together who were delighted to play when asked, and the hall was warm and merry as it celebrated its last night of freedom. She hoped that if Lord Tywin saw them feasting, he would realize a siege would be futile. She buried her fear and worry deep within, for she had already let herself down that morning. Her sworn sword Ser Denys asked her to dance, and she graciously accepted. Her father had taught her that a castle looks to its lord and lady to how it should act. If she danced merrily with Ser Denys, the castle would see that they should not fear either. Laughter is poison to fear, he had said. Soon Ser Denys had her laughing, so she danced with more knights in her father’s service. She resolved, no matter how little food, to have the singers play every night.

Near the end of the meal, Androw returned. When she was alerted, she had food sent to him and went discretely to hear his report. 

“Milady,” he said kneeling, wiping his hands on his tunic. 

“I am glad to see you have returned safely, though your report shall make me less glad, I fear.”

“Lord Tywin’s marching fast, milady. Seems he’s taken a leaf from Lord Baratheon’s book, and stealing days marching through the night. He’ll be here by dawn.”

“How many men?”

“Near ten thousand, milady. A tenth of them knights. They’ll need to build boats and more siege ladders when they get here, and I see you’ve burnt down part of the Whispering Wood. Most like they won’t, just starve us out, milady. They’ve got a steady supply train from Lannisport through the Golden Tooth,” he said soberly.

She wondered if he was right. If she were Lord Tywin, she would divide up her army and lay siege to Riverrun. The land was cold and the army could not live off it long, and an oncoming army, especially that large, would want to storm the castle quickly. But with supplies from Lannisport and Casterly Rock, the smartest way would be to simply wait a year for the castle to starve. 

“Thank you, Androw. You’ve done fine service. I’ll have a hot bath drawn for you, I’m sure you are cold.”

“Thank you, milady.” 

One last night. She resolved to try and sleep at least a few hours before they arrived if she could. She longed more than anything to snuggle with her little babe in her great bed. She had hardly seen him the past three days due to the business of preparation, and had gotten accustomed to instructing her maids to put him to sleep in her own bed so that she might watch him sleep peacefully before she herself drifted off. She returned to her chambers to find Tanda and Elodie waiting for her to help her undress. As they undid her corset, she asked, “How fares my child?” 

“Strong and happy as ever, milady,” Tanda said. “He’s not scared of no siege.”

Catelyn smiled faintly. “It grieves me that I have not been able to nurse him all myself these past days. Has he taken to the wetnurse easily enough? What is her name?”

“Milly, milady,” Tanda replied, pulling pins out of Catelyn’s hair. The girl was a wheelwright’s wife around Catelyn’s age with a baby of her own who had come into the castle when Catelyn opened the gates. “The boy was fussing at first. I’m sure he wanted you, milady. But soon his throat was raw from screaming and his belly grumbling with hunger, so he took to the teat soon enough. It’s a good thing too, since he cries for it near every hour.”

What had she called this girl a few days ago? Just another useless mouth to feed, and here she was feeding Catelyn’s own child. Catelyn felt a rush of gratitude to her, and to Edmure for begging Catelyn to open the gate. And for the briefest of moments, she felt hopeful. She said with a small smile, “He’s greedy and growing. He’ll be as tall as his father one day.”

As Elodie brushed out Catelyn’s hair, Catelyn said, “Elodie. I was too harsh with you this morning for Daisy’s faults. You must forgive me.”

Elodie’s ears went red and she said, “There’s nothing to forgive, milady. Truly.”

Catelyn smiled and took her hand. “You have always served me well. I would look an awful mess if not for you and Tanda.”

“Milady is too kind. You could not bathe for a year and men would still ask for your favors,” Elodie said, smiling proudly at her mistress’s thanks.

_If I bathe more often will they fight and die for me and mine? _She wondered, but in a few hours time she would know the truth of it herself. When she climbed into bed, her little son was lying snugly beneath the sheets, sleeping soundly. Little Hoster, for the father who was all but lost to her. If she lived long enough to see her husband again, she would ask this of him. She stroked his head, smoothing down the soft strands of bright auburn hair. He was so small, so innocent. She pressed her lips to his forehead, scrunching up her eyes as if she could will them somewhere else, somewhere safe.__

___Ahoooooooooo!_ Catelyn jerked awake. She had fallen into a doze, but for how long? She sat up, disoriented, as her baby started to cry. She had woken him up with her twitch. Quickly sitting up and putting him in her arms, she rocked him, trying to quiet his cries with kisses and soft murmuring. Quickly she surmised she had dozed off for less than an hour. All the while she strained her ears. The horn came again, the faintest of noises it could almost be mistaken for the wind. “There, there, my sweet,” she whispered. “They are still a long way off, many, many hours.”__

____She wondered if she would be able to fall back to sleep. Her heart was racing, her body too alive with the fear of waiting for the horrible, yet these last hours would be the only true sleep she guessed she would have for months. Her baby was still wailing even as she bounced him up and down to calm him. After awhile his crying quieted, though Catelyn was loath to put him down for fear he may take up his bawling again. A knock came at the door, and before Catelyn could say anything, Edmure slipped into the room._ _ _ _

____“Edmure,” she said in surprise. He was in his thick woolen dressing gown, standing timidly at the door. When he was smaller, often he would creep into her room when he was scared, but had not for near a year, insisting he was a man grown. She would not shame him for being scared. “Will you sit with me?” she said, indicating her large bed, as if she had asked for him to come._ _ _ _

____He nodded gratefully and climbed up, pulling the blankets up around him. “The horns woke me up,” he said but then he added, to prove he wasn’t scared, “But I came because I heard the babe.”_ _ _ _

____“Thank you for coming to comfort us, my love. They woke me as well, and I startled him. Try and get some sleep, Edmure. I shall sleep better knowing you are here to keep me safe,” she said, resituating the blankets about him. He lay down in the dark. Far off, the horn blew again. It sounded closer this time, though it was still so far Catelyn thought she must have been imagining it._ _ _ _

____Several minutes passed of her quietly rocking her child before Edmure broke the silence._ _ _ _

____“Cat,” he whispered. “I’m frightened.”_ _ _ _

_____Me too._ His eyes were wide and scared as he looked to her for comfort. “Even the bravest men feel fear. Father says fear is what makes men fast and strong. Fear is what makes them brave,” she said, laying her baby carefully down. She laid down close to Edmure, her child snug between them. She smiled sadly and put her hand tenderly on his. He seemed to be digesting her words carefully. __ _ _

______Then he said slowly, “Father’s not coming, is he?”_ _ _ _ _ _

______“I don’t think so,” she whispered, as if she said it too loud would make it come true. She wondered if she should have softened the blow. “We must hold Riverrun for him. Nothing is certain, Edmure, good or ill.” The horn blew again in the distance. “If I sing, will you be able to sleep?”_ _ _ _ _ _

______“Mayhaps,” he replied, holding her hand. He shut his eyes dutifully._ _ _ _ _ _

___________“Gentle Mother, font of mercy,_  
save our sons from war, we pray,  
stay the swords and stay the arrows,  
let them know a better day.  
Gentle Mother, strength of women,  
help our daughters through this fray,  
soothe the wrath and tame the fury,  
teach us all a kinder way—“ 

______An urgent knock banged on the door, causing both Catelyn and Edmure to jump and her baby to start to cry again. “Milady! Milady!” a man called through the door. Catelyn hastily picked up her child again and invited the man inside. He burst in, talking fast. “Two riders have come from the Trident, milady. Says they have a message for you, from Ser Brynden!”_ _ _ _ _ _

_______Uncle,_ she thought. He was alive! Catelyn ordered that they be brought to her solar immediately, along with Ser Desmond, and that food and drink be sent as well. She called in Elodie and put her crying child in her arms before rushing out of the room, Edmure at her heels. Uncle Brynden was alive! He would tell her what was happening, tell her what to do. . .even now she could see his caring eyes beneath his thick eyebrows, listening to all her problems as he always had.__ _ _ _ _

________When she arrived at her solar the two men were already inside, along with Ser Ryger and Ser Desmond. One was pacing anxiously, the other standing looking out the dark window calmly. Ser Desmond introduced them as Ser Halmon Paege, who Catelyn recognized immediately as he had visited Riverrun before, and even brought his son, Robert, who had gotten on well with Edmure. The other she did not know, but learned his name was Martyn, a newly-made knight in service to House Piper. They fell to one knee before her and Edmure._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________“Lord Edmure,” Ser Halmon said in a deep, grave voice. _No, no, no, _she thought. She had known it was coming, ever since the ravens from Harrenhal. She could feel something in her eye, but now was not the time to weep. Edmure had started to cry. She pulled him in front of her, and wrapped her arm tightly about his chest. “I offer you the most heartfelt condolences.” Edmure was shaking. . .or was that her?___ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________“The battle raged in the very shallows of the Trident. The Targaryens had more men than us, but not by many. Your father fought bravely, my lord, but he was still injured from Lord Connington at the Battle of the Bells. Yet even still, he slew Lord Ryger and Ser Armon Uller. He died a noble death.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________Catelyn clutched Edmure closer to her. She could feel his hot tears falling onto her arm. Her throat felt tight, and she did not trust herself to speak. She inhaled quickly through her nose and forced herself to say something. “And my husband? My uncle? The battle?”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________“Lord Robert led the vanguard, Lord Stark his left flank and Lord Tully his right, my lady. When your father fell, Ser Brynden took the command, and managed to hold the line against Ser Jonothor Darry of the Kingsguard. The Dornish were threatening the left so greatly that the Dornish Prince met Lord Stark upon the battlefield, it grieves me to say. . .Your husband held the flank through grit alone, my lady, he was a most capable commander. But when he struck down the dornishman from his horse with his greatsword we hoped he could drive them back, but. . .” the man seemed to struggle to find the words._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________By now, Catelyn could scarcely breathe. “Speak plainly, ser,” she said, though she heartily wished to never hear his voice again._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________“But his brother came to his aid and resumed the duel, my lady, and was wroth with rage and vengeance.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________Silence filled the room. A log in the hearth cracked and fell, sending sparks up into the dark room._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________“My husband. . .he is dead?”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________The man bowed his head. “Yes, my lady. It grieves me to say so.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________The shock of it struck her. Her little son, now Lord of Winterfell, never to know his own father. . .Her own father and now her husband too, both dead. Who was to protect her now? She was likely to shatter Edmure’s ribs if she clutched him any harder._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________“What of my uncle? I was told he sent you. He lives? And Lord Jon?” she asked. If Lysa was a widow as well. . ._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________“Ser Brynden and Lord Jon are both alive and at the head of an army, my lady, thank the gods. When Lord Stark fell, the leftmost flank broke, driving the Northman into Lord Jon’s reserve. By then, the battle was lost, but Lord Jon stood between the Riverlords and the Dornish, and Lord Jon and Ser Brynden were able to retreat, but Lord Robert engaged Prince Rhaegar and wounded him severely, but the last dragon cut him down and broke through the van.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________“How many men managed to retreat?” she asked, not daring to hope they could drive Lord Tywin from Riverrun.  
“Lord Jon has just shy of 6,000 men, a thousand of them mounted. Your uncle led much of the cavalry, so he has near 2000 horse and less than 500 foot. The Stormlords scattered along with most the northmen, and those who managed to retreat ran back North to Moat Cailin. With Lord Stark dead and many Northern Lords captured, the ones who remain fight amongst themselves over control of the armies and all the North as well.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________Only twenty-five hundred men of the twelve thousand who had gathered at Riverrun for her wedding remained, and her father was not one of them. She racked her brains, trying to process everything he was saying, though it seemed as though the harder she tried to think, the more empty her brain became. A horn broke the silence now that the chatter was not deafening them. The Piper man whose name Catelyn had already forgot looked around startled._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________“It seems my uncle is not yet aware that Riverrun is soon to be under siege,” she said to Ser Halmon’s widening eyes. “Where is my uncle’s camp? What strategy does he have, and has he given you any message that is meant to lighten our grief?” _And the siege?____ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________“They have taken the Kingsroad north, as they were forced to. The Targaryen host took significant losses as well, and Prince Rhaegar may not have survived the wounds he endured. They pursued only briefly, then fell back again, but they have blocked the high road to the Vale, so there is no chance the lords of the Vale convince their liege to take their fight to the Bloody Gate. But should the Targaryen loyalists march father south, the Knights of the Vale shall return to the Vale, unless your uncle convinced them otherwise. As of now, they have planned to march west, and most like are still east of Fairmarket now.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________“If Prince Rhaegar has not survived his wounds, there may be hope. His army would surely lose morale if the Prince of Dragonstone died,” Ser Desmond said._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________“Yes, ser, Lord Jon and Ser Brynden hope to reroute south and engage the army should it disperse,” he replied. “Though how have they marched so quickly down the River Road to Riverrun, and to what end?”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________“It is not Prince Rhaegar who approaches, but Lord Tywin, ser. He has set the Riverlands aflame from Wayfarer’s Rest,” Ser Desmond said. Ser Halmon’s eyebrows threatened to be lost in his hair as he let out a despondent sigh._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________“We shall be under siege by nightfall. You will want to be gone by then, sers,” Catelyn said resolutely, making up her mind as she spoke. “The Lord of Riverrun will ride with you.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________Her words were met with silence as Ser Halmon nodded and looked down at Edmure, who was clutching her arm so tightly it ached. He looked up at her, tears streaming down his face. She found it hard not to cry, looking at him. “The Lord of—what do you mean? I don’t want to leave you! Please, Cat, don’t make me, don’t make me go—” he turned around and hugged her tightly, burrowing his head beneath her bosom to mask his sobbing._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________She nodded at Ser Robin, to alert the men to prepare for the journey she had wanted them to take earlier. Ser Desmond looked grim as Catelyn kissed the top of Edmure’s head, smelling the chestnut dye. “You must go to Uncle and tell him Lord Tywin bears down upon Riverrun with 10,000 strong,” she said holding him tightly in her arms as if to make up for her sending him away._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________“I can’t, I can’t,” he said into her stomach, his voice muffled. Then he pulled his face out and looked up at her as the horn sounded again. “What if Lord Tywin catches me?”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________“Lions don’t know how to fish, Edmure. You shall slip away in the night, and swim downstream to Uncle Brynden. Lord Tywin is a stranger here; he will never catch you in the dark. You can squire for Lord Mallister. It shall be an adventure,” she whispered._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________He looked at her dully, his eyes wet and red and wide and empty, eyes that once would have lit up at the prospect of squiring in a battle. Deep blue eyes the color of the Trident in springtime, making small streams fall silently down his face. “I’ll go prepare,” he said finally. She had never heard him sound so defeated and tired._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________“With haste, Edmure,” she told him after kissing his wet cheeks, and he left the room quickly. Once he had gone, she quickly wiped her eyes on the back of her hand before turning back to her thoroughly awful guests. Ser Halmon looked abashed to have brought such horrendous news and quite unsure how to comfort his liege’s family in their grief. Such courtesies wasted time, and time they did not have._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________“Eat, sers, I pray, and with haste. We have little time before you must be gone. You must bring word of our plight to my uncle. Has my uncle sent envoys to Prince Rhaegar's camp?”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________“Envoys? My lady...they have slain your father and husband...” Ser Halmon said uncertainly._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________“Do you think I have forgotten, ser? Would that I could avenge my kin myself. But will that return my husband to me, or my father? It is folly, and shameful too. They died noble deaths in battle. My honorable father would never punish a man for loyalty or skill at arms, and neither shall his daughter. I must ask, to bring truth to my grief. Did Ser Jonothor and Prince Lewyn survive the battle? Did the gods bring justice in battle to those who slew my kin, since I cannot?”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________“Lord Mallister slew Ser Jonothor during the retreat, my lady, and avenged your father. But Prince Lewyn lives to my knowledge, though it was not he your husband struck down, but Prince Doran, his nephew, heir to Sunspear. The Kingsguard did not duel Lord Stark, but Prince Oberyn named the Red Viper when his elder brother fell,” Ser Halmon obliged. Catelyn furrowed her brow. She had seen Prince Lewyn before, when she went to court as a young girl with her father, and in her mind she had already recreated the scene where Prince Lewyn slew her husband. Now she found that she did not know what his nephews looked like, and was having difficulty imagining the scene. She imagined a lance through her Ned’s heart, the look upon his face, but the face turned into Brandon’s in her mind’s eye. She shook her head._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________“Your words grieve me, ser, but I thank you for your candor. My heart shall rest easier now that I know my father’s death has been avenged honorably in battle. This war was waged rightly, but too continue fighting is madness. My uncle must know this. I ask again, ser, has he sent envoys to Prince Rhaegar?” she inquired irritably. Ser Halmon was a good man, but his presence was vexing when all she wished to do was find Lysa and mourn together before Lord Tywin was at their gates._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________“Ser Brynden has sent no envoys, my lady, and for good reason. A man has a need for vengeance,” Ser Halmon replied gruffly._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________“Vengeance? I thought it was justice we sought when Lord Jon called his banners. To restore justice and honor between a liege and his lords that was broken. How many more good men shall die, if my husband, and countless others, must be avenged as well? The Riverlords are too few. We must sue for peace.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________Ser Desmond spoke, his voice gentle. “Lady Catelyn, peace is all well, but there is no peace for any of us while mad Aerys sits the iron throne.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________“Then it is Mad Aerys who is our enemy,” she replied willfully to Ser Desmond before turning back to Ser Halmon and Martyn. “Plead to my uncle on my behalf, sers. If Rhaegar is dead, that could be enough to ensure peace. Why not send envoys to his army, and offer peace so long as Aerys pays for his crimes? Let the child Aegon be named king, for no man can deny his claim, so long as Lord Jon and my own uncle can have a seat in his regency, as they once did with Aegon the Third. The Dornish may comply, as Aegon's rights may be protected. Lord Tywin changes his loyalties as sailors change their sails. With Rhaegar's army joined to ours, the fate of Riverrun may change as well.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________Ser Robin raised his head in consideration, while Ser Halmon looked to Ser Desmond, who was rubbing his chin thoughtfully. After a moment, he said, “What of Rhaegar? He may still live, and his army would never agree to his claim being forgotten. And if he is dead...the Reach lords would never consent to something that benefits the Dornish so openly, my lady.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________“Most reach lords are far south at Storm's End. They shall be too far away for their consent or disapproval to be of immediate consequence,” she said, not missing a beat._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________“The Dornish sided with Rhaegar only for Aegon and Elia's sake. We are rebels and traitors, my lady. Do you think the princes of Dorne will ally themselves so openly to us while their kin remain hostage to the mad whims of King Aerys?” Ser Desmond said. _Why could he not see?_ He was as bad as Ser Halmon. She had always thought Ser Desmond reasonable. Resolute, grim, capable—but never rash. Now she saw another side of him, stubbornly blind to the continued futility of their war.___ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________“We do not know what the Dornish would do, ser, if we never ask,” she replied coolly, anger and grief and worry bubbling beneath the surface. She was sick of this conversation, sick with grief, sick that men saw no way to peace that did not end in victory or total defeat, and they were heading toward the latter. If only they would try to help her instead of silencing every idea of hers with none of their own, to try to think of an alternative to another lost battle, perhaps, maybe, they could make a plan. But they were proud and stubborn, and she had little time to persuade them to abandon pride for sense. To her horror, she found tears of frustration threatening to fall. _No, they will see, and forget everything! You cannot cry, you cannot, lest they paint all your words as only women’s folly!____ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________________But Ser Robin had already noticed, for his face had softened. “My lady,” he said, stepping towards her, his voice fatherly. Catelyn looked away, biting the inside of her lip. He turned to the messengers. “Sers, we shall leave you to your small supper, if you have no more news. You have brought great grief upon Lady Catelyn, and we have little time for mourning before war comes knocking on our gates. Please respect her mourning.” Catelyn wanted to kick him._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________________"I shall relay your wishes to Ser Brynden, my lady," Ser Halmon said gently, even though she knew he did not agree with her._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________________When she spoke, her voice did not break. "That is all I ask, ser,” she said, her chin high and nostrils flared. “Ser Brynden will do whatever he can to relieve the siege, whether by war or peace, I care not, so long as the trout of Tully flies high over these walls for a thousand years." Lest they not forget that she was a Tully of Riverrun, she held out her hand, and Ser Halmon and Ser Martyn each kissed it. Ser Desmond kissed it as well, his eyes bowed soberly. “The Lord of Riverrun will expect you in the courtyard in ten minutes time,” she said before walking briskly out the door, Ser Robin at her heels._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________________She walked fast, trying to keep ahead of her tears. _Am I being a feeble foolish woman, like they think I am? Am I weak and wrong to want peace this way?_ She could hear Ser Robin jogging to keep up with her. When she turned the corner of the hall Ser Robin, grabbed at her arm, saying, “My lady, calm down, my lady!”___ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________________She wrenched her arm from his grasp violently. “How dare you! How dare you, ser? I am capable of dismissing myself—“_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________________“Lady Catelyn, I meant no disrespect. I only thought you would wish to be alone in your grief—not display it for all to see,” he said earnestly. She knew he had only her in his heart, but it infuriated her all the same._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________________“Then let me be alone!” she said before tearing off down the hall away from him. He remained there, staring after her stupidly._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________________When she reached her bedroom she shut the door quickly and pressed her back with relief against the cold back of the door. The room was empty, thank the gods, as she stood, her chest heaving. Her father, her husband, both dead and the war lost. Her father, her father. She could almost hear him whisper, “Watch for me little Cat. Watch for me,” and kissing her on the cheek. She slid down the door, weeping._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________________She let herself cry for only a few minutes, before dusting herself off and hoisting herself to her feet. She headed down to the courtyard, where she knew Edmure and his party would be readying themselves to leave. She could not weep. She could not make it harder for him. He was only a boy, and she was a woman. She saw Edmure next to his horse, a real horse and not a pony, Ser Dalston saddling its pack. The envoys her uncle had sent were mounting fresh steeds when she went over to them._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________________“The Lord of Riverrun is not safe until he is with Ser Brynden. If he could be your son instead, Ser Halmon, I would sleep more soundly. Robert, yes? How fares he?”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________________“He was captured, my lady. On the Trident.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________________“Then we must bring him home,” she said solemnly, taking his hand._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________________“Thank you, my lady. I am eternally remorseful to have seen you this way, instead of at your father’s side on his glorious return. Your beauty and grace has lifted my spirits, and it saddens me that I have dampened yours. If it is any comfort, I swear to you that I shall deliver Lord Edmure safely to his uncle, by my life and my sword.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________________“I shall pray to the mother for your son, ser,” she replied gratefully. Then she walked to Edmure._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________________“Edmure,” she said when she reached him. He turned around to look at him. He wasn’t crying anymore, though she could see him biting the inside of his lip. “You must ride swiftly to uncle. Sleep in the saddle if you must. You must tell him of Lord Tywin, and to bring the army back to relieve us before the year is out,” she instructed, fixing his woolen overcoat tenderly._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________________“I will,” he said solemnly._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________________“This journey is dangerous for the only son of Hoster Tully. You must be someone else. How about Ser Halmon’s son, Robert? You got along with him when he visited Riverrun.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________________“Robert?” he scrunched up his face, considering. “Yes, I suppose I can be him. He was always fun to play with. He even gave me some of his marbles. But he’s older than me.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________________“He’s near enough to make no matter,” she said as the other knights were mounting their horses and calling out to eachother. Edmure nodded and turned to mount his horse. She grabbed his arm. “Edmure,” she said sharply. “Tell no one of my son. He is the true lord of Winterfell, and he is not safe until he takes his father's seat. Tell no one, save uncle."  
“I won’t, Cat. I swear it,” he replied, as Ser Dalston and Ser Harris and all his travelling company had sworn. _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________________She took his hand. Then she did something she had never done, and had not planned to do for many years. She knelt before him slowly, her head bowed and said earnestly, “Your bravery fills me with pride, my lord, as it would our lord father.” When she rose, she kissed him and continued soberly, “I shall pray for your safe return to me, my lord. Ride with haste, and know the fate of Riverrun goes with you.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________________He nodded, and for a moment Catelyn thought he might cry again, but instead he turned his back on her and climbed into his saddle and turned his horse to the exit. Men were yelling throughout the yard as the gates opened slowly, and she saw Edmure look toward them, his face set. In the darkness she could see no trace of tears. Her heart was near bursting with sorrow, worry, and pride as she looked upon his handsome face. In the light, he almost looked like a man grown._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________________Ser Dalston shouted, “Away!” and kicked his horse into a trot, and all the other knights began to do the same._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________________It was as if the world had been silent as he turned towards her, his chestnut hair black in the night and his eyes shining brightly in the torchlight. “Watch for me, Cat. Will you?”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________________“Everyday, my lord,” she replied as she had a thousand times before, her voice full of melancholy. And with a clatter of hooves, he was gone._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________________She stood alone in the courtyard, staring emptily after him, the horns of Lord Tywin nothing more than the buzzing of flies in the back of her mind. When the gate finally shut after them, she turned around and walked away. It was if a disease of grief and fear and worry had grown inside her heart and began to eat at her inside. But now that Edmure had gone, there was nothing left to feed it. Lord Tywin was approaching, she should be afraid! Instead she just stood there, empty._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________________Sleep would be impossible now. She kept walking, unsure of where her feet were taking her, until she found herself at the door of the sept. She took a deep breath and stepped inside. It was dark, the only light coming from a score of candles dancing beneath the jeweled images. She knelt beneath the mother, and looked up into her kind face._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________________She prayed for mercy for her father, that he might find peace and rest in the seven heavens. She imagined him somewhere warm and green, waking from a quiet nap under a shade of trees, a brook chattering merrily beside him. She pictured him smiling, his red beard groomed and his hair fluttering in the breeze as he stretched his arms, relaxed. Her mother was there too, and when her father saw her, he jumped to embrace her. They were laughing and kissing, and Catelyn ached to remember them together with her, a thousand years ago. She wondered if it was a memory, but her mother had always been ill with child. She pushed the truth from her mind. They were happy now, together in the warm summer grass. When her mother broke the embrace, Catelyn realized her face was the same as the statue before her._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

___________________Lysa should be here,_ she thought. She had no time to wake her before Edmure left. If she had slept through the horns of the approaching army, she was still sound asleep, unknowing that their father was dead and their brother had fled. She must mourn, before Lord Tywin came, for after there would be no time, yet Catelyn could not bear to wake her from her untroubled dreams and thrust her into this horrible waking. _No, let her sleep. Let her have a few more hours of peace. . .__ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________________She kept in fervent prayer to the mother for several hours undisturbed, though the horns grew increasingly louder. They would be here soon, and she must be on the battlements before they were. She stood up slowly, and examined the statue’s face. “Watch over them, mother,” she said, unsure which mother she was entreating. “And all the sons who shall die today. Let my own boy not be one of them.” She lit a candle and placed it before her. She lit one before the crone, for Edmure, that he may find his way. And finally, she lit one before the warrior, for her Uncle Brynden and good-brother Jon Arryn, for Lord Mallister who avenged her father, for Ser Dalston and Ser Halmon and all the men guarding Edmure, for Ser Desmond and Ser Robin and the men upon the walls who would fight and die for Riverrun. And finally, she prayed for herself. _I have no skill in arms or love for war, but bless me with the strength I need to protect me and my own. I would never pray to be a man, but let me be a warrior.____ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________________She returned to her room to dress, as she would not look down upon Lord Tywin’s army in a dressing gown. Tanda and Elodie helped her in silence. When she was ready, she looked into the mirror. She looked beautiful and proud in the deep blue and mud red of her house. _Let him come,_ she thought grimly. She swept out of the room, her heart pumping fiercely, every beat bringing strength and clarity to her mind as the sound of the horns serenaded her. Men bowed at her and murmured “milady” when she passed, and each word was a potion that lifted her spirits so much that it seemed she soared up to the battlements. _Was this how her father felt, and her husband, before the Battle of the Trident?__ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________________The sky was black as pitch as she walked upon the battlements. She stood as regally as she could manage as she squinted at the horizon, trying to get the first glimpse of torches and banners. She saw Ser Desmond instructing men as they brought the large barrels full of ice and rock upon the battlements, and others with barrels of pitch and oil. “Don’t mix them up, you fool,” he berated one of them. Then he said to her, “Maester Vyman was right. The barrels froze hard and solid a few nights past. They're beginning to thaw now, but still--they will hurt as much as any boulder.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________________She nodded. Knights and soldiers scurried around her, bringing the supplies needed to the battlements. Shouting was occasional as the castle began to get itself in order. Still, most the castle was still in their beds, though Catelyn doubted they were truly asleep. Young Ser Denys sat beside her oiling his bowstring when suddenly he let out a long whistle. “Bells!” someone yelled. Catelyn looked up as the siege bells in Riverrun began to ring._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________________The sun was rising on the western horizon, though it was the biggest sun Catelyn had ever seen. _Don’t be a fool,_ she scolded herself. It was torches, not the sun that danced in the darkness. The pinpricks grew larger as the army spilled over the horizon like a wave upon the shore, though this wave was made of fire as it crashed upon the black earth. _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________________In what seemed no time at all, the oncoming army had completely marched over the horizon, and Catelyn watched as it slowed and stopped. The horns were still blowing, but they were close enough now that Catelyn could hear faint shouting as well. Catelyn gave a sigh of relief, which startled Ser Denys. He looked up, and when he found he could not see, stood up and stared into the darkness, saying, “What is it, my lady? What can you see?”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________________“The army has come to a halt, around three miles away,” she said. “They must be trying to cross the river out of range from our arrow fire.” They would not storm the castle. She would have laughed for happiness if all else had not been so grim. Edmure would make it safely to their uncle, and in a few weeks he would return and smash Lord Tywin against their walls. All they would have to do was wait. . .but she had spent her life waiting, and by now was well practiced at it._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________________The sky began to lighten and her back began to warm as the sun rose behind her. She could see her breath before as she stared across the plains. She could make out the shape of the banners, and soon enough their colors as the army began to split in three to surround Riverrun completely. The white shells of House Westerling, the three dogs of House Clegane, the purple unicorn of House Brax, the burning tree of House Marbrand, and near a dozen others, but the boldest and most unsettling was the great gold lion of House Lannister._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________________The banners of House Lannister had crossed to the North and began to march slowly towards Riverrun along with most of the men. She was horrible at estimating how many, but Ser Denys guessed they had over 5,000, which meant that around 2,000 men would camp East of the Red Fork, and 2,000 to the West. Ser Desmond walked over and stood beside her._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________________“Why would they divide the men so unevenly?” she asked him quietly._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________________He shrugged. “Many reasons, my lady. Perhaps they know Ser Brynden has a force near Fairmarket, so they want the most men on the Northern bank, but. . .that seems unlikely, as we just found out. We burnt down part of the forest, but not all. They may decide to camp in the trees that remain, for shelter from the cold wind.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________________She walked along, so the men could see her, and give them hope. She had been standing in the same place for too long. When she walked along the wall facing North, a man called, “Riders!” Catelyn quickly looked over the edge. Two scouts on horseback had ridden ahead. They pranced along in a line, just out of range, looking at the ice, and the men on the wall.  
“Hewitt, Roland!” Ser Robin ordered, and two bowmen knocked their arrows. Catelyn watched the men with bated breath. She could see that they were talking, though they were too far to hear or understand. They kept circling, like flies just too far away to swat when Catelyn heard a WHANG as Roland let his arrow fly. A grey goose feather sprung up in one of the scout’s chests, and he slumped off his horse. His horse jumped in fright, while his companion wheeled his horse around angrily and galloped back to his camp. _One down,_ Catelyn thought. _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________________It would take hours for the Western lords to make their camps and start their fires, and by now the sun was already up. She was not needed here, at this moment, but downstairs, in Lysa’s arms. Catelyn had hardly forgotten her grief, but for a while the oncoming army distracted her. She had no wish to relive it now, but that would be selfish. _It is time she knows. I must be the one to tell her._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________________Lysa was breaking fast with Lady Evelyn when Catelyn found her. “Catelyn,” she said. “Come eat with us. I doubt you slept well with all the horns. Simon says that Lord Tywin has arrived and will not storm the castle.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________________“Simon?” Catelyn asked, distracted._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________________“One of the singers. He played for us, last night, when we couldn’t sleep,” she replied._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________________“That is good, though, is it not?” Lady Evelyn said. “Perhaps Lord Tywin will lose heart when he cannot eat off the land.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________________“Yes, perhaps. . .Lady Evelyn, would you excuse us for a moment?”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________________“Of course, my lady,” she said retreating._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________________“Lysa,” Catelyn paused, wondering how to tell her. “A rider came in the night, from Uncle Brynden. There was a battle. . .Father is dead,” she said bluntly._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________________“What—dead? What do you mean?” Lysa had turned white._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________________“The battle went ill. He fought bravely, they said. He slew many men.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________________Lysa began to sob. “Who will come and save us, now?” she wailed. “Will my husband? Will my Jon? Oh no—I am a widow too, now, a childless widow.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________________Catelyn rushed and put her arms around her. “No, Lysa, Lord Jon is fine. He has retreated, that’s all. Perhaps he will come to save us, or Uncle Brynden. They still have men enough to lift the siege,” she said, stroking her hair._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________________“No, it’s hopeless, just say it. Father, dead! And soon we shall be too!” she screamed, quite beside herself._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________________“So long as we live there is still hope, Lysa,” Catelyn said, trying to convince herself as well. “So long as we have eachother.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________________Lysa hugged her tight around her waist, crying into her chest. Catelyn held her silently, the horns, shouts, and sobs almost deafening. She tried not to think of her father, but she found herself remembering the time she fell and hurt her wrist and had come running to him. He had pinched her arm until she hit his hand away with an angry protest. “That hurt!” she had said, to which he had teased, “But now your little wrist doesn’t hurt so bad, little Cat.” Afterwards he had healed her with hugs and kisses. She couldn’t have been more than six, but the memory was like a punch in the gut. She hoped she would never forget it, but now was not the time to remember it. She must honor Father’s memory by holding his castle._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________________After a little while the sobs subsided into sniffs and hiccups, and Catelyn felt Lysa was ready to play her role. “Lysa, we cannot let our grief cloud our judgment. We must set our mourning clothes aside for mail and plate. That is what Father would want of us.” She did not wait for a reply, but continued on. “Have you finished the banner?”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________________“Nearly,” she said wetly._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________________“Good. Finish it as quick as you can, and then take it to the Septon, that he may hold a ceremony to bless it. I love you, Lysa. I love you,” she said, kissing her._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________________“I love you too, Cat,” she said earnestly._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________________It was only until Catelyn left her did she realize Lysa never asked about Ned._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you all enjoyed it! I thought I'd update quickly in honor of all the people stuck inside during the hurricane. One of my favorite chapters in AGOT is Catelyn XI where she speaks in favor of suing for peace, but like Catelyn then and young Catelyn here, how safe is surrendering when a madman is on the throne?
> 
> For some reason italics are just not working predictably? Beg pardons, friends. Stay safe, wherever you are!


	4. Catelyn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You are the gentle sex," said Lord Karstark, with the lines of grief fresh on his face. "A man has a need for vengeance."  
> "Give me Cersei Lannister, Lord Karstark, and you would see how gentle a woman can be," Catelyn replied.  
>  _A Game of Thrones,_ Catelyn XI

For the next five days, the inhabitants of the castle were in two places: the battlements or the Sept. Catelyn stood beside Lysa as the listened to Riverrun’s septon ask the Seven to bless them with strength and victory.

“We only ask you gaze upon us, and see in our hearts our holy devotion to you, and our just cause in our struggles,” his voice rang through the Sept. The inhabitants nodded their heads enthusiastically.

 _I do not ask for victory unless it is deserved,_ she prayed. _But I am a faithful servant of the Seven, and I know our cause is righteous. The seven find favor in the good and the true, and what are we if not that?_

The acolytes held the banner carefully as the septon walked around it seven times with incense, and then anointed it with seven oils. 

“House Tully is a loyal servant to the Seven. Let all false men who gaze upon this banner see their sins before their eyes that they may repent and be reborn in the light of the Seven. Let them gaze upon your face, brave and noble warrior, and know that to take up arms against this House is to take up arms against the house of the gods!” he said, his fists shaking with conviction.

Afterwards, they sang several hymns, and processed out of the Sept behind Ser Denys and Ser Robin, who held the banner high above them. A great image of the warrior stood fiercely upon the holy rainbow field, his sword drawn against all enemies of those faithful to the Seven. The castle cheered as Ser Denys and Ser Robin climbed to the top of the center keep and secured it. The great knight fluttered in the wind, the silver trout of House Tully painted proud and boldly upon his armor. Just the sight of it comforted her. The gods are on our side, she thought. They must be.

Cheers were still coming from the castle when suddenly the great bell tower began to toll again, sending scores of birds into the air. Many people stopped cheering in fear, while others cheered all the louder, thinking the bells were joining to their joy. Catelyn jerked her head upwards to the battlements, where shouts had begun on the Northern side of the castle. She raced up the stairs as quickly as she could without inciting panic to the ladies beside her. 

“Knock arrows!” Ser Desmond yelled, and all the bowmen obeyed in unison. Catelyn raced up to Ser Desmond’s side, looked over the walls, and steeled herself grimly. No less than five-and-ten hastily made siege ladders were moving slowly towards the wall. When the line of engines reached the edge of the frozen Tumblestone, it halted ominously. The world grew eerily silent as everyone watched with bated breath for something to happen. Then, slowly, one of the siege engines creaked forward onto the ice. Catelyn’s heart was in her throat. Any moment now, any moment . . . 

“Movement on the Western bank halted out of range, ser!” a voice called into the silence.

A victorious shout came from the Lannister army that chilled her to the bone. Why didn’t the ice break? Her mind was screaming, but her mouth just opened blankly as more siege ladders began to join the scout, first just two more, then five, then all of them moving slowly forward across the ice. No, no, the ice, the ice! 

Crossbow men were firing at the men pushing the siege ladders through crenellations in the wall. Two trebuchets were firing barrels of pitch at the castle walls, one crashing into the wall behind her close enough to startle. 

“My lady,” said Ser Robin, pulling her out of harm’s way as Ser Denys shielded her. “You should not be up here. There shall be swords upon the battlements soon, when the ladders get too close!” he shouted over the noise, pulling her into the tower between the Northern and Western side where the scorpion was, two men loading and firing her carefully.

She looked out the tower to the Western side. There were less siege engines on this side, but instead a great turtle that was already at the Water Gate, as the men and ram underneath it had obviously just walked across the frozen moat. She watched as men dropped burning pitch onto the wooden turtle even as she heard the ram battering the gate. Another sound reached her ears, a sound more ominous than the whizzing of arrows and metal beating into metal.

“Is that. . .music?” Ser Robin said, confused, as the chorus of drums and lutes was not completely buried beneath the shouts of war. When he recognized the tune, he said violently, “Oh bugger him. Bugger them all.”

She watched the turtle be set aflame and men run out from beneath it only to be met with arrows in their backs. Yet before she had even looked away another turtle was inching forward to take its place. The two men were beginning to load another arrow when Ser Robin said to her in a low voice, “Without the river, the castle will fall, my lady,” he said.

“Riverrun shall never fall while a Tully draws breath,” she replied, though she was panicking. At this rate, Lord Tywin would take the castle by morning. He had too many men, and without the river to protect them, soon enough they would be overwhelmed. 

“I won’t argue with you, my lady, but you should get Lysa and your son to safety. Make sure their doors are barred. If I was lord I’d make you stay with them, but I know better than to think I could.”

She nodded, and Ser Denys led her down into the castle. Smallfolk were huddled in the courtyard in terror but Catelyn walked straight for the great hall. Guards were at the door and let her in. Inside she found Lysa with a dozen ladies, wives of the knights defending the walls. The three bards were in there, singing to keep the mood light. Catelyn put on an encouraging smile as she walked into the room. She kissed cheeks and held hands and murmured words of encouragement, assuring them that their sons and husbands were bringing them honor.

“Lysa,” she said in a low voice, a smile plastered on her face. “Where is my son? Why is he not here?”

“He was making a fuss, so I had the wetnurse take him away. I did not want him to upset the ladies.”

Catelyn wanted to slap her. “He is safest here!” she hissed. “Do not send him away again.” 

Then she turned and walked briskly from the room, Ser Denys at her heels. She ran to the nursery, clutching her bosom to run faster and then burst into the room so violently Milly gave a shriek. “Oh, milady, I’m sorry. You startled me,” she said, rocking the boy in her arms. Catelyn looked at her son, his blue eyes staring knowingly up at her. If the castle fell, Lord Tywin would kill her and Lysa, but she wouldn’t let him kill her child too.

“Your knife, Ser Denys,” she commanded, holding open her hand. Ser Denys obeyed, his eyes wide and worried. “Hold him tightly, Milly. Don’t let him squirm.”

Her son, sensing the blade, began to cry. She took the knife to his head, pulling his auburn curls tight before sawing them off. They fell away tuft by tuft until her little son was bald. She handed the knife back to Ser Denys. “Follow me, Milly,” she commanded. As a second thought, she grabbed the stuffed horse he loved before rushing back to the great hall. When they reentered the hall, Catelyn ordered a chair be brought for the wetnurse.

“Wha—oh!” said Evelyn as she gazed upon the true Lord of Winterfell.

“He must be your son, now, Lady Evelyn,” Catelyn commanded, though the words tore at her heart. “The Lord of Winterfell is not safe here, no more than the Lord of Riverrun was. My own son died of fever, during the fighting.”

“Cat—I—the battle—“

“Our men are fighting bravely. The castle will not fall,” she lied. “I only ask so that you can soothe a mother’s worried heart.”

“Yes—yes, of course, Lady Catelyn. I would do anything for you,” she insisted loyally. Catelyn smiled and kissed her. 

“Since he is not the Lord of Winterfell, I suppose you can name him, so long as you know you name your son, not the Lord of Stark,” she said with a sad smile, which Evelyn returned. Catelyn realized that she had waited so long for Lord Eddard to name his son, but that would never happen. She bent down to kiss his newly bald head, wondering if she would ever see him again, ever name him, ever watch him grow into a man.

Her previous anger at Lysa had evaporated in the face of certain death. “Lysa,” she said tenderly. “Be brave,” was all she could manage. Even now, all she could do was boss her around. Then she swept out of the room quickly before she changed her mind to stay.

“My lady, we should stay with all the ladies. It is not safe for you out here,” her knight pleaded as they walked by the Water Gate where the ram was beating steadily. 

“It will give the men courage to see me on the battlements,” she replied. If Edmure were here, she would have him safely on the battlements surrounded by knights. But as she had so many times before, she must take his place.

“I cannot protect you out here. Should the castle fall, it will be chaos while the lowly soldiers sack the castle. I do not wish to die knowing I have failed to shield Lord Hoster’s daughter from dishonor. Let me take you back to the Great Hall, where your gentle birth will protect you. Its heavy doors will stand long enough for Lord Tywin to enter the castle and take all the ladies into custody. Please, my lady, these soldiers are no more than beasts when their blood is up, but the knights and lords will treat you gently!” he entreated, chasing after her as she climbed back up the battlements.

She turned around abruptly on the stairs, looking down at him. “You do not understand,” she said, shaking her head in disbelief. “Lord Tywin is taking Riverrun for Lord Tywin, not for King Aerys. My father is a dead traitor. Lord Tywin wants Riverrun and all its lands and incomes for himself. He will kill Lysa and I, don’t you see? Why else do you think I sent Edmure away? He means to rid the world of House Tully, as he did to the Reynes and Tarbecks. When we are dead and he holds the castle, he hopes the King will grant him all the Trident for his loyalty. There is no gentle treatment in store for me, ser. Let me die upon the battlements, not in chains.”

She turned and resumed her climb. The battlements were loud and bloody as the Riverman fought tooth and nail against the lions who were scaling the walls. Two of the siege towers were on fire, and the frozen moat was littered with corpses that piled higher every minute, but Lannisters seemed to have endless men. As soon as one man fell from the ladder another took his place, on and on it would go, until the Rivermen could no longer lift their blades for weariness. Catelyn stepped over several corpses as they walked toward the tower with the scorpion. It seemed as though one of the siege ladders had been briefly successful and several Lannisters had made it into the castle before being slain. Two of the corpses wore silver trouts upon their chests. Mother have mercy upon them, she thought wildly. 

Ser Denys pushed her behind him and drew his sword as enemies spilled over onto the battlements. “To me, to me!” he cried as lions flooded onto the battlements, one after another. Ser Denys cut a man down with a single stroke, but the next did not die so easily, and while he lived more friends appeared behind him. Tully men rushed from behind Catelyn to join the fight. One cut three men down so quickly he found himself at the ladder, where he promptly kicked the Lannister man in the face so that he fell off the ladder with a grunt. Catelyn nearly fell over a man’s leg as she backed away. Though she had no idea how to use it, she grabbed the sword clenched in his bloody hand. She could hardly lift it for its heaviness. 

The man who had secured the ladder was having a horrible time as enemies were at both his front and his back. A Lannister man nearly cut his head off from behind, but miraculously he ducked just in time so that he ended up cutting the face of the Brax man climbing the ladder. From the ground, the Tully man drove his sword upward into his bowels. The body fell upon him just as another Brax man climbed onto the battlements, crushing both man and corpse beneath his feet. Ser Denys was dueling a fierce knight near a foot taller than he, unaware of the man behind him. He was going to die, he was going to get stabbed in the back, she realized. The man wasn’t paying attention to her; she was only a woman. Overcome with an insane courage, she came up behind him and shoved the sword into his back with all her might.

He gave a grunt and turned around, dying. He stared at her in disbelief, as if not understanding why a woman was there and holding a sword. Catelyn backed away quickly, tripping over a corpse and falling with a yelp. “Lady Catelyn!” he heard Ser Denys say as he glanced around in surprise.  
The man she stabbed’s disbelief quickly turned to anger. “You stupid bitch. I’ll—“

But exactly what he would do Catelyn would never find out, as Ser Denys had split his skull in two. The man fell, the bloody remains of his head landing in Catelyn’s lap. Ser Denys gave out a cry as the knight he was dueling, taking advantage of his opponent’s distraction, stabbed him in the gut. Catelyn sat on one body with another in her lap, transfixed, as Ser Denys fell to one knee. She knew she should get up, she should flee, but she could not move or think, only watch her father’s man, her own sworn sword, fall before her. “Fall back,” he gasped, forcing himself back to his feet. 

He fought fiercely, though he could hardly lift his shield arm. The steel sang as the knight tried to end it with a ferocious cut to the face that Ser Denys only barely blocked, and not well enough. Blood was poring down his face so fast Catelyn wondered how he could even see when suddenly a large crash from beyond the wall jerked her from her stupor. 

A chain had shot from the tower, the arrow guiding it into the nearest siege tower with a crash and knocking a few men from it. Before the men could climb back down, the chain reeled in quickly, smashing the siege tower upon the wall of rock. Bits of flesh and wood fell in pieces to join the pile of corpses down below. When Catelyn looked back to Ser Denys’s duel, no one was there. “Ser Denys!” she said, rushing forward over the body of the knight he’d slain. He was lying there, breathing heavily, his hand covering his gut. She could hardly recognize him his face was so bloody. “We need to move,” she insisted as she helped him to his feet with difficulty. She half supported, half carried him into the tower with the scorpion before letting him go. He was so heavy she wondered how she managed. When they reached safety, she settled him against the wall. She kneaded her shoulder with her knuckles as he slumped down the wall. The two men were struggling to reel back the chain, as it refused to completely break free from the remains of the siege tower. Catelyn looked through the crenel to see hundreds of corpses surrounding the siege engines and hundreds of men running onto the ice. She looked out toward the West side. From the looks of it, she guessed the ram had almost broken down the Water Gate, as hundreds upon hundreds of men were upon the ice, holding shields above their heads to block the arrows as they waited to rush the gate. She saw the remains of the second turtle burning beside the first, but the men were still ramming at the gate, even while barrels of frozen ice crushed every other man. As soon as one man fell, another took his place. They would not be so reckless unless they could taste victory. 

“There are so many men upon the ice! Why has it not broken?” she wailed, turning back to Ser Denys. His eyes were closed. “Ser Denys!” she said, rushing back to him, falling to her knees and shaking him. “Ser Denys!” 

He jerked back to life, blinking blood out of his eyes. “You need to get out of here, my lady. Where’s my sword?” he said looking around. “I can’t protect you anymore. . .not without my sword.”

“Don’t speak like that, ser. You saved me! He would have killed me; I saw it in his eyes. But you saved me!”

His bloody face managed a smile. “I only did my duty, that’s all. . .you saved me first. . .I couldn’t let my lady die. . .not after she defended me. You saved me first,” he insisted. His voice was slow and labored. 

Is that what she had done? He did not look saved to her. “Not well enough, I fear,” she replied. He put a hand to his face in an almost dreamlike way, feeling the ruin. The slice had taken part his nose and split his lip in two. He had never been handsome, but now his face resembled a bloody piece of meat more than a man.

“Better me than you,” he said. His words were slurred in between labored breaths. “I was never comely to start. This might be an improvement. Ser Robin told me women love scars.”

She gave a wet laugh. “Yes, now that you mention it, ser, I have found I’m mad with lust.” 

He laughed painfully, clutching his stomach. “Leave, my lady, go back to the hall. Let me die thinking you may live.”

“You’re not going to die; you’re not,” she insisted. “Just—“

The two men on the scorpion fell backwards as the chain and arrow finally dislodged itself from the broken tower. They got up quickly and began to load it again. “Aim for the middle,” one said to the other. It did not matter, she wanted to tell them. The gate would fall long before they would destroy enough siege towers to matter. Without the river, Riverrun was just another castle. 

“Wait!” she yelled at them with a mad desperation. “Wait! Aim it for the ice! There!” she pointed near the base of one of the towers. Obediently they resituated the scorpion. She heard a horrible sound—a cheer of victory from behind. She turned and looked out the crenel to see men dropping the ram and climbing through the remains of the Water Gate. The men behind were yelling, “Casterly Rock!” and “Lannister!” as they rushed toward the fallen gate. Catelyn turned back to the scorpion. “Now!” she screamed, and the arrow and chain flew from the tower.

It pierced deeply into the ice with a sickening crack so loud the cheering was forgotten. Catelyn watched in terrible fascination as the crack weaved away like a river, with little cracks like streams appearing in the ice. “Return!” she ordered, and the man set to reeling it back. The arrow was straining to return to its master, the ice around it too stubborn to break. Catelyn could hardly breathe as she watched. The men grunted behind her. Not sure how she would help, she frantically joined her strength to theirs. Her knuckles were white, her forehead sweaty, her tongue bleeding from where she was biting it. Come on, she begged. Budge.

She fell down violently as the crank turned, though the two men had managed to stay standing. The chain burst free, taking a hundred pieces of ice with it. Catelyn watched in horrible wonder as water began to spurt through the cracks that cut quickly through the ice, guided by the holes that had been drilled. The closest siege engine began to tip, and then it sank and men began to scream as they fell. One by one the ladders and engines sank into the water, only to be swept away by the current and smashed into one another as the Tumblestone began to flow freely. Screams pierced the sky as hundreds of men drowned, their armor pulling them down to the cold bottom of the river.

Catelyn turned to the West where the Water Gate was broken and men were rushing victoriously over the frozen moat even as it began to crack. Some men had reached inside the castle only to be filled with quarrels while the men outside scrambled frantically on frozen ice. The screams of drowning men filled the air until Catelyn could hear nothing else. She took deep breaths, steadying herself as she watched wide-eyed. The cold waters rushed over their bodies and she felt a wave of relief. They were safe. Even if just for one more day, it did not matter. They were safe.

“They are falling back!” said one of the men, the one with the thick black beard. “Milady!” 

Some beast within her was roaring with triumph that she had never known lived in her. _Run away, Lord Tywin. You better run._ “Ser Denys!” she said excitedly, turning back to him.

All her pride and relief vanished. He was sitting peacefully, his eyes shut as if asleep. She should feel sad, he was sitting before her, dead, but all she felt was confusion. She had saved the day. . .the castle was still standing. . .so why was Ser Denys dead? There was a small smile on his broken lips. She hoped that meant he had died in peace, knowing the castle was saved. She realized she would never know for sure.

Voices were coming from the castle, yelling “Tully!” and “Riverrun!” victoriously. First it was only a few voices, but then it seemed the entire castle was cheering. The two men beside her joined their voices to the shouts, though the noise did not hide the sounds of the screaming men just outside the walls. They looked at her as they cheered, and she saw in her eyes that they were her men, they way they were once her father’s. She walked quickly out of the tower to the battlement over the Water Gate. Many of the men along the walls were picking up crossbows and firing them freely into the courtyard below. Down in the courtyard a score of men were panicking like a bird caught in a trap. “Riverrun!” Ser Robin yelled, leading a group of knights and men-at-arms into the fray. Some of the Lannister and Brax men-at-arms turned their backs to the wave of oncoming men in attempts to flee back out the Water Gate, only to find their escape blocked by an icy river and their chests full of quarrels. One of the knights was yelling, “Casterly Rock! To me! To me!” His armor was made of scarlet and gold, the roaring lions on his shield feathered so much it could pass as a hippogriff. 

She weaved between the bowmen carefully, racing to the stairs. She saw Ser Robin bring his steel against a knight with a green shield for his arms. Kill him! She thought. He’s right there! Kill him! She heard herself yell it, but only once. With a slash below the gorget, the Greenfield knight fell. She ran down the steps and into the yard as the breach upon the walls of Riverrun ended in a bloody whimper. Dead men with red and gold upon their chests littered the yard. She stopped beside a crossbowman as Ser Robin engaged the knight of House Lannister. Their blades kissed and sprung apart and kissed again in a flurry of steel. The crossbowman seemed reluctant to shoot and rob Ser Robin of his glory. Lannister men fell all around them. Kill him! She thought. Why should Lord Tywin’s kin live and not mine?

Soon Ser Lannister stood alone. “Yield!” Ser Robin told him, but the knight refused stubbornly. 

“Finish him!” Catelyn screamed. The beast within her wanted nothing more than to see him die, to see his scarlet blood cover his scarlet armor. There would be no yields for a Lannister. A madness came over her, and she grabbed the crossbow from the man beside her. 

“Milady!” he protested as she raised it. She had never held one before. Something about it felt alive, made her feel alive, as she pointed it at the lion over his heart. With a jerk of her finger, she let death fly.

The arrow passed well above his head. “Another!” she told the man, and he hastily took the crossbow back and began to reload it, this time without protest. Ser Robin was hacking at the knight ferociously, chipping his arrow-filled shield to bits. The knight was patient though, for with a quick move he pricked below Ser Robin’s sword arm. No, no, not Ser Robin too. Ser Denys and her father and her husband had all fallen, surely not Ser Robin too.  
Wordlessly the man beside her handed her the loaded crossbow. I won’t flinch this time. She had aimed for his heart and had pierced naught but the sky, so she aimed low in hopes to hit his chest. The knight was on the attack. Every blow looked sure to land, but somehow Ser Robin managed to block each in the knick of time, red flowing down his arm such that his own sword was spotted with his blood. Her teeth bared, she fired again.

With a grunt Lannister stumbled, a quarrel sprouting in his thigh. He did not fall, to Catelyn’s anger. She wanted him dead, dead and dying before her. She wanted to watch the lifeblood pore from his heart to atone for her father. She wanted those he loved to be forced to weep helplessly for him, as she had. He fought back, hardly able to stand. With a good shove from his shield, Ser Robin knocked him to his back. Lannister tried to block his attacks with the remains of his own shield, but within a few vicious strokes Ser Robin had kicked the sword from his hand. 

Several men came to try and lift the Lannister to his feet and put his hands behind him, but even swordless he proved unwilling to subdue. He kicked with his good leg and clawed and bit like a lion in a cage. “My lady,” Ser Robin said breathlessly as she approached. 

She looked at knight before her on his knees, his arms wrestled behind his back. The beast within her roared with triumph as she looked hard down at him, her teeth gritted and nostrils flared in disgust. His helmet had been ripped off in the struggle, and his golden hair flowed down his shoulders. His emerald eyes stared back at her angry and defiant as he evaluated her down to the empty crossbow at her side. Even covered in blood he was handsome. She guessed in his early thirties. The Lannisters were a large and fertile house, so it was hard to know what branch of the family he was. Lord Tywin himself had three younger brothers. He would be the right age for either of the younger two, but she also knew that Lord Tywin’s late wife and cousin had a brother around his thirties. She looked at what remained of his shield, and was able to make out three lions. A third son. 

“Ser Tygett Lannister,” she said coldly. She would let Ser Robin execute him before her; she would feel his blood soak through her shoes and Tywin Lannister would learn the price he paid for attacking Tully land. 

“I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure, Lady Catelyn,” he retorted boldly, though his mouth twitched in pain. “I’d give you my sword if your man hadn’t taken it, my lady. I’m sure he would give it to you, since you saved him from my steel.” He gave a nod to the crossbow at her side. It weighed heavily in her hand.

“I have no use for your sword. It’s my father’s lands I want. I would have your brother leave Riverrun by word or by sword.”  
“I’m afraid you’ll have to use sword, because my brother has never listened to me. If he did, I would be counseling him at his side, not kneeling here before you. He’s a stubborn man, my brother. You will not have to wait long for him to storm the castle again.” 

“Then you best pray the gods teach lions how to swim,” she said with malice, the dying shouts of his men still audible.

“Tully!” the men shouted. “Riverrun!”

Catelyn turned to Ser Robin. He looked white and pale as blood ran from the crook between his arm and chest. His face was resolute. She dropped the crossbow with a loud clunk. “Clap him in irons and put him in a cell that fits his station as Lord Tywin’s brother,” she commanded. The men dragged him away. “Ser Robin,” she said concernedly, reaching out for his arm.

“It’s nothing, my lady. Only a scratch,” he said in an attempt at his usual jovial manner, though his teeth were grit in pain. 

“It is not. I insist you see Maester Vyman immediately.”

He nodded obediently. “What should we do with this lot, my lady? Toss them in the river with the rest?” he gestured to the littered ground of corpses.  
She glanced over the bodies. “My father’s rivers are already clogged with corpses. Hang them on the battlements so Lord Tywin does not dare forget his defeat. The fish have feasted on lions enough for one day. Let them feed the crows.”

“As you command, my lady,” Ser Hegel replied, and with several others began to drag the corpses into a pile at the base of the battlements.  
Without warning, Ser Robin stumbled beside her. She grabbed his arm desperately, but it was his young squire who stopped him from crumpling to the ground. He heaved him back onto his feet.

“Thank you,” she said, wiping sweat from her brow. “Take him to the Maester.” 

She turned around to find the man she had stolen the crossbow from waiting eagerly behind her. “Ser Leel. . .where is Ser Desmond?” 

“He was leading on the Western battlements, milady. Most like he is still there. . .shall I fetch him for you?”

“No, no,” she considered for a moment. “You,” she called at some men who were clearing the courtyard of men. One hastened to her so quickly he tripped over a dead man’s leg, while another dropped his half of the corpse without so much as a warning to his friend’s chagrin. Five men stood before her, including Ser Leel, waiting for commands. Only Ser Leel was a knight, so she addressed him first. “Ser, if you please go to the hall on my behalf, and tell the ladies within that we are victorious, and that I entreat them to stop their worried prayers, but instead to visit the sept and give thanks for our deliverance.” It would have been unbecoming to send but a man-at-arms with such glorious news. 

One man she ordered to bring news to those of lower station of their victory, most notably the servants that would help care for the wounded and dying. Two she sent to Maester Vyman, to get cloths for bandages that they may bind the wounds of those upon the battlements as they wait for the Maester’s cure. The last two stayed with her. She could not carry a wounded man to the barracks for care, after all. 

They began to pick their way through the corpses in the courtyard, trying to find Tully men to take to the Maester. There were far more wounded lions than trouts within the castle and upon the battlements, she quickly realized. If she had been in the sept with Lysa and Ser Denys had come to tell her that for every wounded Tully man a dozen Lannisters lay around wounded or slain, she would have rejoiced and thanked the gods. Seeing it with one’s eyes, though. . .

She knelt beside a man with a trout upon his breast and felt his throat. She could not see any wounds, but that did not mean there were none. She finally sighed and stood up. He was surrounded by four dead Lannisters. 

“A brave man,” one of her companions said.

“Yes. Loyal and true. Our own dead line along that wall,” she pointed. “I won’t have them looted and thrown into a pile with Lannister filth.”

She stepped around him, racing to another Tully man. Perhaps this one was alive. . .she thought, and then again, and again, and again. She heard a man cough, and ran to save him, jumping over bodies when a cold hand reached up and grabbed her about the ankle. She gave a frightened scream as she was pulled down. The hand reached out to touch her, and she saw he had a fountain of red for a left eye. “Please,” he gargled, spitting out blood. “Please. Mother. Mercy.” 

_You’re all right,_ she wanted to say. _You’re alive. Finally, someone who can be saved._ Before she could speak, a rough hand pulled her to her feet and shoved her behind him so quickly she stumbled over another body. 

“Please,” the man said, still looking at Catelyn with his one eye. Then a mace dug deep into his face with a sickening crunch. 

“Are you hurt? My lady?” a voice said, but all Catelyn could do was stare transfixed at the shattered skull that had spattered bits of bone and flesh upon his red and gold tunic. “Did he hurt you?” Lady Catelyn?” the voice said again.

Catelyn shook her head numbly.

“That was ill done, Nestor,” said another voice, and Catelyn’s head snapped up to see Ser Hegel Terrick standing there. His purple and gold armor was glinting in the sunlight. He frowned. “Put him with the others. I shall stay by your side, my lady, in case any other of this scum gets a second life.”

Catelyn was grateful that he offered to protect her here, not insist she was safer elsewhere. She continued wading through the bodies, Ser Hegel now dutifully at her side as Ser Denys had been. Much of the day and well into the night was spent separating the wounded from the dead. The courtyard was littered with bodies, mostly enemies, but some Tully men as well. Ser Desmond stayed on the battlements to defend the castle while Ser Robin was unconscious in the barracks with Maester Vyman and a dozen other wounded men. Catelyn found herself in need of their council but too busy to seek either out, so Ser Desmond’s page little Oliver Heddle raced back and forth with messages between them. 

Inside the courtyard Lannister dead outnumbered Tully near eight to one, thanks to the crossbows on the battlements shooting down at them like rats in a bottle, yet even still every Tully man she saw weighed heavy on her heart. Any injured Tully men she had immediately carried carefully to the Maester. 

“The Maester? Bugger that. I don’t need now maester—oh pardons, milady—just a big enough fire to mend it right,” a man said as he cradled the stub of his right arm. His face was handsome, in a rugged sort of way, with a short cropped beard of brown hair.

Catelyn was not having any nonsense. “Hush, now. You’re going to the barracks to Maester Vyman.”

“Bugger him. He can’ grow me a new one. Was the poin’? I’d rather stay here with you, milady. The Maester’s all elbows and jowls. You’re as fair as the maiden, and I bet your hands are much gentler,” he said boldly, as he never would speak if he wasn’t in so much pain. 

“And as fierce as the warrior. Didn’t you see her shoot Ser Tygett in the leg?” said Ser Hegel. “She embroidered the warrior in her father’s likeness, and then sent her great needle and thread to free the river. Gentle hands, yes, but not a gentle heart. Lord Hoster’s daughter and a great lady.” 

Catelyn did not know what to say to that. The stubborn hedge knight did.

“Hmph. I saw, I saw. Not every day your lord’s daughter sits by your side in worry. Like I’m some fancy lord or great knight. My arm hurts too much—I can’t think straight. Am I important?”

“No, you’re just a hedge knight Lord Hoster took into service before the war,” Ser Hegel said haughtily.

“A hedge knight, that’s right. What’s a crippled hedge knight gonna do now? Your father’ll never keep me in his service if I can’t fight. I killed two knights for you, though the last one got my hand before I gutted him. You’ll tell your father that, won’t you, milady? Tell him I served you faithfully?”

My father is dead, she thought. “I will tell him, when he returns,” she said after a pause.

“Let me serve you. I killed Lannisters for you. I can fight alright with my left hand, but it can serve you better between your legs.”

Ser Hegel slammed the man into the ground with his steel boot.

“Mind your place, hedge knight. If you put that hand on her I will not hesitate to free you of that one as well. Then your mum will have to feed you and wipe your arse and wank you off herself like she did when you were a little rat-faced prick,” Ser Hegel said heatedly. Then he added quickly, “Beg pardons, my lady.”

“Fancy talk for a knight. I’m just making noise to take the pain away. The lady knows I mean no harm, right?” he looked at Catelyn, cradling his arm. “Your knight’s got a discourteous mouth about him, but I’m bleeding all over your gown, so I don’t know which is worse.”

“I care for loyalty and service over empty courtesy, and Ser Hegel is not the one refusing to see the maester after I have commanded it. You two—carry him to the barracks,” she said with pursed lips.

“I don’t need men to carry me like some bloody child. I’ve lost an arm, not my legs. I can walk on my own,” he said indignantly, though he was teetering as he sat up. 

“Then you should have when I first commanded it, as is your duty. Losing blood defending this castle was your duty. Neither you, nor any man, shall presume to think that puts me and mine in his debt. Your service belongs to me as does your arm. So it belonged to my father, and I doubt you would have presumed to speak to him in such a manner. Carry him to the barracks.” 

After that, Catelyn let the men find the wounded soldiers. Only if the men were dying did she kneel beside them to ease their passing. The first man died weeping, and Catelyn wept with him. How many good men had died to protect Riverrun? After the fifth man died in her arms, Catelyn began to wonder how many tears she had left. She had never felt more exhausted, but exhaustion would have to wait. Dead enemies were soon hanging from the battlements, but Catelyn and Ser Desmond disagreed on how to treat the bodies of Tully men, which kept little Oliver busy racing back and forth between them. Ser Desmond said they must be flung from the castle to prevent any disease coming from the bodies. . .but Catelyn could not bring herself to allow such a hollow death for true and loyal men. The thought of Ser Denys in his black and gray armor piled unceremoniously into a trebuchet and flung like a tin can full of clanking rocks from the wall made her ill.

One of the dead men they had piled to hang turned out not to be dead at all, only wounded and unconscious. He woke at the bottom of a mountain of corpses, his friends’ and brothers’ broken flesh suffocating him. His screams lasted several long minutes before he quieted. Whether from wounds, loss of blood, or lack of air, Catelyn did not know. The screams continued in her mind long after, like the ones of the men who drowned. She could still hear the cracking of the river, and the way the men splashed and fought against the hands that pulled them down. 

Darkness had fallen by the time the men had begun to dig graves for the fallen men at Riverrun. Catelyn stayed long enough to watch the dirt fall heavily on Ser Denys’s chest. The sight made her feel empty and useless and worst of all, it made her think of her father, and that brought her close to helpless tears. She could not be helpless, not now. Riverrun needed her. Without a word, she drew away from Ser Denys’s unfinished grave and walked quickly toward the barracks. _Forgive me, ser,_ she entreated the corpse. _When this is over, I shall grieve for you truly._ But not today. She could not today.

As she opened the barracks, a wave of heat and the smell of death and vomit hit her face. She blinked her eyes twice to adjust, and rolled up her sleeves. Wounded men lay everywhere: on bunks and tables and the stone floor. Maester Vyman rushed among them frantically. Servants did their best to follow his orders, and Catelyn was pleased to see that many of the highborn women were tending to the men. Even Lysa was there, though after a short time Catelyn realized her presence did more harm than good, as the sight of a man’s bowels coming out of his gut sent her into a hysterical fit that frightened the dying man. Catelyn entreated her to go to the sept and thank the seven for their deliverance and beg the stranger to lead the dead into peace.  
The rest of the night was spent tending wounds and easing the passing of dying men. She had never thought she would ever hear so many last words…and her father, what were his last words? Were they of his children? Of his little Cat? She wiped her sweaty forehead on her sleeve. After helping hold still a man so Maester Vyman could set his broken shoulder, she excused herself. 

The sun began to rise as she walked quietly to her chambers. _Father,_ she thought, blinking back tears. _I did as you would, I hope. I will hold Riverrun. I swear it. Would that I could hold it for you._ Then she thought of Edmure. Had she made a terrible mistake? Had she sent him to his death? Mother, keep him safe. Keep him from Lord Tywin’s clutches. She opened the door to her chambers and walked quickly to the nursery. “Where’s my son?” she asked immediately.

“Just here, milady,” the wetnurse replied, and there he was, sleeping so soundly, perfectly unaware of the grief and fear and bloodshed about him, or that he was now the Lord of Winterfell. 

“My son,” she said tremulously, reaching for him. “My lord, my boy,” she held him as close to her as possible, hot tears racing down her cheeks. She kissed his sweet face, again and again. He was safe, he was safe, he was safe. Yet she could still hear the screams of the drowning men in her mind. But her babe was safe, and she would kill hundreds more to keep it that way. “My son,” she sobbed. “My little Hoster…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! I have been enjoying everyone's comments so far. I have a solid plan and a bunch written for the next twenty chapters or so, but I enjoy reading everyone's thoughts. It's definitely valuable to see how other people interpret the characters and makes me re-evaluate my own interpretations. Next chapter will feature someone else besides Catelyn, so get excited.


	5. The Shattered Prince

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "A little brother may live to be a hundred, but he will always be a little brother."  
>  _A Dance With Dragons,_ The King's Prize

The sound of hooves on stone rang in his ear. Clip, clop. Then hooves on dirt. Pit, pat. Then—splish, splash, splish splash over and over—and then the sound of metal on metal, on leather, on flesh—he couldn’t breathe. He drank the air furiously but could not breathe, he could not move—

He jerked awake quickly, gasping for air, then gasping in pain. He fell back, his hand going towards his chest. He heard a laugh, and looked around the dark room of black stone to see who was with him, only to grimace and fall back again.

“Seven hells full for the day?” came his brother’s voice. 

He grunted in reply, examining the bandages on his chest. He glanced around—without moving his torso this time. He was in a giant chamber with only two small windows to let light in. The little light that streamed in illuminated a slightly dusty floor. It was just after dusk, but what day, he did not know. The furnishings were modest, with only a small tapestry to decorate the wall. The room looked meager and bare due to its vastness. A great fire was roaring in the hearth, yet not large enough to sufficiently heat the great room. Then he turned toward his brother, checking for any injuries. He was sitting laxly beside his sickbed with a wry smile, wearing a loose tunic that cut deep in his chest. His arms were folded comfortably as if he were perfectly content with the world, though that was likely not the case. In the light of the fire, he could see relief in his eyes…and anger. There was an open book on the table beside him.

When he could tell his brother had no injuries of his own, he asked, “Where are we?”  
“Harrenhal. Kingspyre tower, specifically.”

He nodded and laid back down. He felt dizzy with pain. He heard the door to the drafty chamber open, and his brother call for the maester. He opened his eyes again and examined his bare chest.

“How long have I been unconscious?” he asked, pulling a bloody bandage off his shoulder to reveal a nasty gouge. A couple inches lower and it would have pierced his lung.

“Long enough that I got my hopes up.”

He gave a short laugh, which he instantly regretted due to the pain shooting up his ribcage.

“My prince!” came the maester’s hurried voice. At a moment he was at his side. “You shouldn’t sit like that, not with broken ribs!”

“Yes, I figured that out myself,” he said through pained breaths, and his brother laughed again. “How long have we been at Harrenhal?”

“Eight days. Lady Whent is being a surprisingly remarkable host,” his brother mused.

“Almost like her life depended on it,” he replied through gritted teeth.

“Almost,” his brother smiled. “Soon we will eat through her winter stores. The Vale lords have retreated beyond the Bloody Gate, licking their wounds, and the northmen scurry back to Moat Cailin, fighting amongst themselves.”

He looked at his brother carefully. “Lord Stark is dead then?”

“Yes,” he replied shortly. A pregnant pause hung between them…and words Doran did not know how to say. How he had always hated Oberyn’s rashness—yet without it now he would be in two pieces, and Lord Stark would be at the head of an army. He opened his mouth to say something, but when he saw the smug look on his baby brother’s face he closed it again. It was a long moment before he finally spoke.

“Who knew saving my life would be so politically beneficial to the war effort?” He gave a small smile.

“The intolerable superiority of firstborn sons,” Oberyn replied melodramatically, and he rose and walked over to the small table in the room and picked up a giant greatsword that glinted in the firelight. Valyrian steel. 

“Stark’s sword,” he said, bringing it over to Doran. “I think I may keep it. There is a shortage of Starks nowadays, and besides, they owe me a debt.”

“There is still a boy. The youngest son of Lord Rickard.” _And the whore, who he would not mention._

Oberyn ran his finger lightly along the edge. “Fine. His brother’s sword for his sister’s head.” 

“Methinks Rhaegar would protest.”

“Rhaegar’s cock would, at least.”

“Was that not what I said?” Doran quipped back, watching the maester investigate his wounds.

“I find it hard to tell the two apart. What do you think, maester?”

The small maester lifted his head. He was young for a maester, around Oberyn’s age, though they could hardly be more different. Maester Caleotte was barely five feet tall and pale, once a lowborn boy from Kingsgrave. He was capable and loyal. Doran had insisted he stay in Sunspear to take care of their mother, who quite ardently refused, saying the men of Dorne would need him more in the battles to come. _Well, he was not going to argue against that now,_ he thought as he watched Caleotte’s hands pause over a nasty gash in his chest. 

“Enough, Oberyn. No need to force the poor man into treason you so easily take the mantle for.”

“Someone has to, nay, brother? It’s only words.” 

Doran sighed. It was always “only words” to Oberyn. Until it wasn’t.

“How long does Rhaegar intend to stay here?” Doran asked, ignoring the previous comment.

“Robert Baratheon got a few good swings in before his gallantry killed him, so our dear good-brother has his own wounds to tend to.” He sounded pleased.

“How grave are his wounds?” Doran asked. _If Rhaegar were to die…would Aerys release Elia then?_

“Not grave enough.” Oberyn said tartly. 

“Elia would mourn his death,” he reminded his brother, holding back a grimace as the young maester poured copious amounts of ointment onto his chest. 

“Elia would rejoice to see Dorne again. Or the blue sky.”

Doran looked at him seriously. “Our quarrel is with Aerys then, not Rhaegar. You would be wise to say as much beyond my ears.”

Oberyn picked the dirt from underneath his fingernails in silence. “For now,” he shrugged.

Doran sighed again tiredly. He did not have the strength to argue with Oberyn now, nor to try to reason with him. He watched as the maester finished dressing the slice across his chest, and hoped Oberyn had held his tongue while he was asleep. Doran doubted it. 

“And the Riverlords?”

“Scattered to the winds, mostly, but the Blackfish managed a retreat. He’s little threat. No more than a fly.”

“But not none. Our father told me the man had a knack for commanding small units in the War of Ninepenny Kings.”

“He’s finished. We hold Harrenhal, and his lord brother is in chains. Now Lord Tywin marches through the Riverlands towards Riverrun, sacking as he goes.”

 _Riverrun? Now that was news._ He considered for a long moment.

“Lord Tyrell at Storm’s End, Lord Lannister at Riverrun,” he said slowly. “It would seem Rhaegar’s _leal_ supporters are already choosing their pickings.” 

“And Dorne is licking its wounds,” Oberyn said angrily. “Dornish blood has flown, and princely blood at that.” 

Oberyn stood up abruptly, his face cold with fury. The greatsword stood with him, near as tall as he. _He thought I was to die,_ Doran realized. For a moment, Doran remembered the way Oberyn had raged when their Uncle Lewyn had met them on the Kingsroad to take command with word that Aerys refused to let Elia go to Dragonstone. Oberyn loved him, he knew that, but not the way he loved Elia. But loving Elia was easy, that was one thing Oberyn and he could always agree on. Beneath all their fights and jests, Oberyn was his brother, his only brother, yet even still…Doran Martell felt oddly touched at the reminder that his death would be more than just a slight on the honor of their house to Oberyn. Then he felt glad that he had not died, for more reasons than one. He wondered what his half-mad brother would have done when half-mad with grief and anger.

“Elia and her children choke in Mad Aerys’s clutches, and what have we gained? Only death,” Oberyn spat.

Doran raised a hand slightly to placate him. “Rhaegar will not forget us.”

“Oh, I intend to make him remember, when he wakes,” Oberyn said, examining Stark’s blade. “ _If_ he wakes…”

“Oberyn!” Doran warned. His raised voice startled the maester, who jerked and punched the gash in his chest. Doran gave a cry of pain as fire shot through him from navel to shoulder. Everything went black for a moment as he dug his nails into the mattress beneath him, Caleotte spewing apologies. 

Oberyn laughed in disbelief. “You’re reprimanding me? Just after I’ve saved your life?” He ignored Maester Caleotte hurrying to leave the chambers. His piercing eyes had no target but Doran’s sick and feverish ones. “I should have let you die, Doran. I would have much preferred to serve Elia. She doesn’t speak to me like a child. She knows my worth.” 

“That was not my intention,” his teeth gritting in pain.

“I’m glad to hear it,” he said in a voice that did not sound glad in the slightest. He regarded Doran coldly, then turned and walked briskly to the door, threw it open, and stormed out. A crisp winter breeze bit at his naked chest, and Doran Martell was left to think about how he had not even thanked his baby brother for saving his life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We are finally introduced to another arena of the war. The Martell brothers are fun to write. I hope I did a good job conveying two people who have similar goals, same loyalty, but completely different personalities that may clash. But, as we learn in canon, Oberyn and Doran trust each other completely, and use their personalities how they are, not really trying to change each other (the way Stannis and Ned try to change Robert, for example). When Doran speaks of their differences, it is affectionately (no doubt tinged with grief), yet Oberyn is a bit more sardonic ("And it is me you must contend with now, not my patient, prudent, and gouty brother"). I am going the route that Oberyn would speak that way to his brother's face, not just behind his back, and that family roasting sessions are part of Oberyn expressing affection (this is the guy that roasts all of Elia's suitors c'mon), and so the Martells would be able to tell when Oberyn is harmlessly teasing vs using incisive humor to get a point across. And keep in mind, this is around 14 years before AGOT. Oberyn is a young man in his late twenties. Doran is nine years elder. When 16 Oberyn killed Lord Yronwood and Doran exiled him for a few years. In some way, as the quote in the summary suggests, Doran still sees Oberyn as his little brother who he may trust his loyalties, but has a hard time seeing as an equal partner, not just his kid brother who he has to clean up after. In canon they become equals, united in their search for justice for Elia. It'll be fun to see where they go here. And don't worry, we shall see Elia soon enough.


	6. Doran

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You mistake patience for forbearance."  
>  _A Feast for Crows_ , The Princess in the Tower

When Doran woke again in the morning, he had a rough plan. He should, since he spent most of the night lying in bed trying to figure out what to do. One thing was certain: he must convince Rhaegar to march back to King’s Landing. And Oberyn…he had handled that poorly, there was no doubt about it. Oberyn may be hotheaded and unpredictable, but there was no doubt of his loyalty, that was sure. If Doran or their mother commanded him something, he would never betray them. He had gone into exile easily enough all those years ago when Doran commanded it, but Doran would have preferred if he had just not killed Lord Yronwood in the first place. _But that would not have been Oberyn, would it?_ He thought. He was reminded of the promises he had made to the new Lord Yronwood when his mother called the banners, to ensure the Bloodroyal got no ideas of disloyalty while their army was far north of the red mountains. He would see Quentyn again, before he had to send him away, he told himself. When Elia and her children were safe, then he could go back home, to Dorne, to his children. 

The warmth of the thought lasted only a moment. The dull throbbing in his shoulder threatened to shatter his chest into a hundred splinters. He called for his squire only to find out the boy was too injured to do his duty. A pang went through his chest. Egad was just a boy, only three-and-ten. He had been kicked in the chest by a horse, trying to pull Doran from the shallows of the trident, they told him. _When he recovers, I will knight him. He must recover. He will,_ He assured himself, but suddenly he felt so tired. The sand of Dorne was but a distant dream. If Quentyn was the price of Oberyn’s sins and Yronwood’s loyalty, what would be the price of Elia’s safety, and Aegon’s crown? How many Dornish lives?

Another of his squires fetched the maester and helped him tend his wounds and dress him. The maester assured him the smell was normal, and in time should make a full recovery. 

“Besides Egad—what other Dornishmen spilt blood on the Trident?”

“Prince Lewyn had a bad cut to his forearm, but I patched him up well. He was not near as injured as you, my prince,” the maester replied. He then proceeded to list off all the Dornish nobility he had treated, or knew of their injuries, no matter how small. When the maester was done, Doran thanked him for his service and excused him. 

As his squire helped him dress he asked, “And how many Dornish lives were lost, Mors?”

Mors thought for a moment before answering. “Lady Delonne’s cousin was slain by Ser Lyn Cobray, as was her brother Ser Symon. And Lord Uller’s two sons were slain.”

“Lord Uller has four sons who rode when I called the banners.”

“The two eldest died. Ser Agmon and Ser Armon.” Mors answered quickly. “They were slain by Lord Tully. Ser Jonothor slew Lord Tully in return, but the riverlord Lord Mallister killed him, and it turned out Lord Tully didn’t die after all. He’s imprisoned in the dungeons, but everybody says he’s like to die any day now.”  
The boy paused, and after a moment’s thought Doran instructed him to continue. Young Mors proceeded to recount Doran with all the tales, completely unaware of the political implications they held. Ser Myles Mooton had slain Ser Tommard Whent, his sister’s husband, in a ferocious duel, and when her good-mother surrendered Harrenhal her brother told her the news himself. Apparently, according to Mors, it had been quite a spectacle, as she called him “Kinslayer” and spat in his face and now locked herself in her chambers, refusing to let anyone in. Ser Barristan the Bold had slain Lord Piper and and no less than six great knights, Lord Baratheon had killed Lord Velaryon with one swing of his great warhammer, which Rhaegar had claimed along with his head. And of course, dear Oberyn, who had not only saved his clumsy brother, but slew Lord Stark and Lords Dustin and Umber besides. Not only that, Mors detailed, he even killed Lord Cobray of the Vale. And then he dueled his son Ser Lyn who injured Prince Lewyn with his father’s valyrian sword, but the battle forced them apart without conclusion.

Doran watched young Mors Manwoody closely as he helped him don his garb. The boy was nearing manhood, he realized. It seemed not that long ago that his cousin was announcing his birth. He was a good lad, eager and a bit hotheaded as boys were, though Doran had hardly been like that. He dreamt of adventure and glory and honor, and was like to remember anything Oberyn ever said.

“How have you occupied yourself while I was asleep, Mors?” he asked.

“I’ve been plenty busy helping the maester with you, and with Egad as well. And I’ve still been taking care of your horse.”

“And when you’re not serving me, where do you pass your time?”

“In the great hall, mostly. It’s vast, my prince. Most of the men gather in there to talk and drink and gamble and fight.”

This was the sort of thing he relied on Oberyn for, but like a fool he had asked little before their spat. 

“Then let’s go to the great hall,” Doran concluded once he was certain his bandages were fully hidden.

“Yes, my prince, certainly,” Mors obeyed. Doran nodded at Areo Hotah, who was standing next to the door, watching them. 

“And my brother, where is he?”

“Great hall, most like. Or the yard, my prince. Sometimes the men will fight to pass the time, with fists. I won six stars against a squire from House Fossoway.”  
An early morning chill lay over the castle as it shuddered and began to wake. Squires and pages rushed too and fro, delivering messages and tending horses and whatever else their masters ordered. From the battlements he could see tents throughout the castle yard, and he was reminded of a similar sight, when all the lords of Westeros had come to Harrenhal for a grand tourney. Now they were here for war. A bitter taste filled his mouth. 

As they made their way through the camp, Doran saw hungover men stir and lift their heads only to call for a drink to start the day. Soon men were awake, eating and laughing and pissing and wrestling. Doran saw many men begin walking towards the great hall as well. It was almost like they were at the tourney again, not war. Two men-at-arms were laughing raucously into the sky, and Doran was left wondering if perhaps it was only Dorne whose service had reached the end of its tether. The camp was not nearly as restless as he had expected for a tired army at the end of winter. They had just won a great battle, true, but Rhaegar had forbidden them from plundering the Riverlands—

Shouting snapped him out of his reverie and he saw the man plant an ax into his comrade’s throat. Other men started shouting as well, and soon more bodies were on the ground, and a woman was screaming. 

An hour later, three men were shackled and led away, and Doran’s chest was burning from shouting orders to break up the small mob. He wondered if he had ripped the maester’s stitches. Mors wiped sweat from his forehead. He looked surprised at the recent events. A gaggle of men remained around Doran waiting for orders. Only a few were Dornish, but none were highborn enough to dare talk back to him.

“Milord,” said a man with the crest of House Rosby on his doublet. “What should we do about her?” He gestured to the crying woman whose existence started the debacle. _Too many men, not enough women,_ He thought tiredly. He examined her torn garb. Was she a kitchen wench, or a camp follower? Anger boiled deep in his stomach, like a dragon just beginning to wake after being prodded. What folly Rhaegar had done, and what innocents suffered for it. He realized queerly that the men would be imprisoned alongside the man whose lands they violated, Hoster Tully. He looked at her face, and the tears racing down, and the faces of the men waiting on his orders, and all the flags and sigils that filled the yard—hostile flags—and then back to the crying peasant girl. _Never on Dornish soil._ He thought. _Never._

“Take her to Maester Caleotte, and see that she’s taken care of. Mors will show you the way.” 

_So the men were restless,_ he thought as he resumed his walk, Hotah just behind him. It had hadn’t even been a fortnight since the rebels were broken on the Trident, but then again, he considered, that was a fortnight with no Rhaegar. Who had filled the gap while Rhaegar was recovering? 

Doran walked into the Great Hall, half of its hearths roaring with flames, heating the giant room from the stone floor to the impractically high ceilings. A few lords and knights were seated about, talking quietly. Breakfast had yet to be served, but Doran was glad to have arrived early. He had missed much in his injury, and now he would have plenty of time to observe all the lords and knights as they came to eat. He made his way past a dozen empty tables while several lords and knights asked after his wounds and praised the seven he had awoken. 

“To see you look so well, after such a fight—the gods surely must be on our side!” Ser Bonifer Hasty assured him. “I pray to the seven that Prince Rhaegar recover from his wounds.”

 _Though not with ease,_ Doran thought.

Doran excused himself politely, and continued heading for the tables of honor with hardly any consideration. Of all the men in camp, after Prince Rhaegar, was he not the highest ranking? There were no royal princes or uncles or cousins—Aerys was useless but for folly and madness and Viserys was only a child. True, Doran had no titles for himself unlike many of the lords present in camp, but he had several things they lacked: a birthright to all Dorne, a princely title, a sister who was to be queen, and a nephew who would be king. Of all the men in camp, it was he who should fill the gap Rhaegar had left. But of course that was impossible. He had just awoken, and he despised Rhaegar to his core. He looked at the men filing into the great hall, lords and knights and squires, all men here for love of Rhaegar and Rhaegar alone. He could never win their loyalty, not unless Rhaegar gave it to him.

“Prince Doran,” came a frantic voice belonging to Lord Mooton, who was clearly trying to get away from his brother, the brass Ser Myles who stood with another of Rhaegar’s companions, Ser Richard Lonmouth. “You have recovered from your wounds?”

“Yes, my lord, thank you for your concern. Ser Myles, I heard many tales of your valor in the little time I’ve been awake. I hope none of you suffered any injuries?”  
“None so much as Rhaegar, my prince,” Ser Myles said. 

“How fares he?” Doran asked, knowing Ser Myles to be a close friend of Rhaegar’s, somehow. He wondered if Myles helped Rhaegar steal off with the whore.

“His condition is improving. He will wake soon but even still…” He said impatiently. “We need to send envoys to all the rebels and demand they surrender, and send hostages. They cannot refuse. They must know their cause is lost. Robert Baratheon is dead as is Ned Stark, and Hoster Tully is our prisoner.”

“Lord Tully is as good as dead, and he isn’t worth much to us then,” Ser Richard said. “With Tully dead, control goes the Blackfish, and he still has an army. He’s a bold man, clever and proud. I do not think it would be in him to bend a knee, nor in Lord Stannis.”

“Lord Stannis?” Lord Mooton said in confusion.

“Lord Robert’s younger brother. He’s barely a man-grown, but he was always stubborn, even as a child, I remember. And he’s already held Storm’s End against the might of the Reach for the entire year—“

Ser Myles cut Ser Richard off. “Even still, ser, he held it in his brother’s name, and now his traitor brother is dead. He’d be a fool to not accept a surrender from Rhaegar. But Prince Lewyn refuses to heed my advice. He has sent envoys, but he has also demanded Lord Tywin and Lord Mace to send most of their forces to King’s Landing.”

Doran’s ears perked up. Had his uncle filled the gap, or tried to? Of course it would fall to a Kingsguard—Ser Jonothor was dead and according to Elia, Ser Barristan had no interest in politics.

Ser Myles continued. “What use is demanding surrender if you decrease the pressure? If we lift the siege why would they accept? And you’re wrong about the Blackfish as well—if Lord Hoster dies Riverrun passes to his children. He has a young son. And two daughters, who married the Lords Stark and Arryn.”

 _What use indeed,_ Doran wondered, a curious thought forming. 

“When Lord Tywin takes the castle, he will kill the boy and hold the daughters hostage against the uncle.”

 _Kill the boy and marry the widowed heir, more like,_ Doran thought. That poor girl was in for a fate he expected to be less romantic than that of Argella Durrandon. It made him think of Elia, hostage in a castle where she had thought to be a queen.

“He means to take the castle and all of the Riverlands as well!” Lord Mooton said indignantly. “It’s not right—a westerman to rule from Riverrun. House Mooton has always been loyal to the Targaryens—we shed blood for Rhaegar on the Trident and defied our liege and now Lord Tywin thinks to rob us of our glory! Riverrun should go to a loyal Riverlord—“

“Pester Rhaegar with your greed, not me,” Ser Myles told his brother angrily. 

As the conversation decayed to bickering and harping on the same subject, Doran politely excused himself to go sit. 

“I hope you are paying attention, Hotah,” he said as he sat down, surveying the great hall as it filled. Soon he would need to find his uncle Lewyn, who most likely was guarding the half-dead prince.

“Cousin!” came a booming voice as Dagos and Myles Manwoody approached him. “I heard you had finally awaken!”

Doran greeted them heartily. 

“Are you in much pain, Prince Doran?” his cousin Ser Myles asked him. “Your maester said he was running low on milk of the poppy, but I do hope he saved some for you.”

“I thank you for your concern, coz, but it’s nothing.”

“A cut from Valyrian steel—does it feel different from a cut from a normal blade?” Dagos asked, his thin eyebrows furrowed in curiosity.

Doran put a hand instinctively to the wound. “It pains less than the bolt in my shoulder.” 

“Coward’s weapon,” Dagos grumbled. “No honor at all in a crossbow.” 

Doran was saved the awkwardness of explaining how that cowardice saved his life when Dagos hailed his father over. Ferryn Blackmont was in his fifties, married to Doran’s aunt Lady Marina, the Lady of Kingsgrave. He was standing with his niece, the younger daughter of Lady Blackmont. She was young, younger than Oberyn, and wearing a trousers underneath a wool dress dyed yellow with a black vulture carrying a pink infant in its talons stiched on the front. She had an annoyed look on her face, and Doran soon learned it was because she had just cut off a man’s hand who touched her. 

“The lowborn are restless, my prince,” Loreza Blackmont told them. Very few women had ridden to war to represent their houses, and most of them were Dornish. “Prince Rhaegar has forbidden from taking from the rebels, so they think to take it from the loyal. I’ll hang the next man who dares touch me, not just free him of the hand.”

Doran offered to have some of his own knights guard her, but she refused politely, insisting her sworn swords have kept her safe thus far. 

“How long are we to stay in Harrenhal, then?” Ferryn Blackmont asked. “We have done as Rhaegar asked. The rebels’ cause is lost. Are we to root out every rebel from his keep?”

“My father speaks true. There is no honor in chasing down Ser Brynden and slaughtering his meager force,” Dagos said. Doran tried his best to ignore the throbbing in his chest.

“But what of Lord Arryn? He is the one who first rebelled, and he is not like to surrender. He suffered little casualties on the Trident for his troops were in the reserve, and he made an effective retreat,” his brother Myles argued.

“Lord Arryn is untouchable behind the Bloody Gate. He is still a threat, even if the Starks and Baratheons and Tullys are not. He will not surrender. There is no surrender for him, he must know that,” Lady Loreza, his mother’s namesake, said.

“There is no surrender for Arryn or Tully or Stark or Baratheon. King Aerys made sure of that,” Dagos spat. “And so we must become butchers, and hunt down every rebel to slay or give to him to burn.”

The others murmured in agreement. 

He continued. “But if we leave, Princess Elia, my good and innocent cousin, dies. Prince Doran, how—“

“Prince Doran! Prince Doran!”

Doran’s lords and lady all turned their heads to see the blur of color that was rushing towards them. He was weaving through the other knights and lords until he stopped right before Doran and knelt, his chest heaving. Then Mors stood.

“My prince, it’s Ser Daemon Uller. He’s dead. I saw it happen. Well, almost—I—“

Loreza gasped, and Mors father asked, “Ser Daemon? Who killed him?”

“Lord Tully!”

The lords made noises of confusion. Doran could see other lords and knights, turning their heads and watching Mors keenly. Doran put up a hand. “How did this happen? Has Lord Tully escaped?” he asked urgently.

“No, my prince. Ser Daemon went to kill Lord Tully, while he slept. He wanted vengeance for his brothers, I suppose. But Lord Tully woke when he was stabbed, and took the blade and killed Ser Daemon with it.”

“Is Tully dead?”

“The maester was trying to save him when I left, my prince.”

Doran turned to the Norvoshi. “Hotah, take ten good men, and find Lord Uller. If he’s in his chambers, keep him there till I arrive. If not, bring him to me. Gently.”

“Let me accompany him,” his cousin Myles said. His other Dornish kin volunteered as well. Doran left the great hall as quickly as his wounds would allow, Mors trailing behind him. What a fool Ser Daemon was—and what a fateful end he had met for it, Doran thought as he headed towards the cells. If anything, it was best he had died…if he hadn’t Doran most like would have had to give him to Rhaegar to suffer for his crimes. He wondered if Lord Uller had known of this—surely he wanted Tully dead, but would he have not seen that Tully was like to die from his wounds and no need to sully his hands, or honor? But then again, Lord Uller had always been half mad—perhaps that is why Oberyn got along so well with him—“

“Oberyn!” he said with shock. There his brother was, standing in a puddle of blood outside the door to the chamber where Lord Tully was imprisoned. A dead guard lay at his feet, the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen emblazoned on his chest. It looked grotesquely like a four-headed dragon due to the stab wound. And next him was none other than Lord Uller, laughing bitterly at something Oberyn surely had just said.

“Prince Doran,” Lord Uller said as he knelt and rose. “I’m glad you are awake, though I wish you were asleep through my shame. My son,” he said spitefully and shook his head. “The boy never could do honor well, and I see he can’t do dishonor well either. If I was a coward, I’d at least be a good coward.”

“Lord Uller knew none of his son’s plan, it seems,” Oberyn drawled.

“No?” Doran asked skeptically, turning to Harmen Uller.

“We talked of revenge, of course. I want to see Lord Tully choke on his blood, my prince. No sense lying about that. I thought Ser Jonothor robbed me of that. It would be Tully’s wounds that would kill him. I prayed it was painful. I prayed he would die, slowly. And if he did not? I would duel him, of course. I wanted to see if it was my fault. If I defeated him, I would get revenge for my sons. And if I died, I would know I had failed them, to expect them to kill a man I could not.”

“Very well, then,” Doran replied. “I am sorry for your losses. Ser Agmon and Ser Armon brought glory and honor to House Uller, and all of Dorne. We mourn their fate.”

“Thank you, my prince,” Lord Uller replied. He looked at Oberyn and said, “You have no sons, only daughters. You are lucky in this. Daughters must learn to be brave. Sons must learn to be cowards. I hope, my princes, that you never know the shame of seeing your son be a coward, and wondering where he learned it.”  
He bowed and retreated, his black eyes misty. Then he turned around and added, “I’ll send men to get the body. Whatever remains…Agmon and Armon would not want to be buried without him. And—“ his voice became thick, and he simply nodded at walked away.

Whatever else Lord Uller had to say, Doran never found out. He was left standing beside his brother awkwardly in a pool of blood, wondering after the queerness of fathers and their sons. He thought about his own boy, the babe back in Dorne he had already promised Lord Yronwood to raise. The thought filled him with sorrow, knowing he would not make Quentyn a man, brave or otherwise. 

“Mors,” he said quietly. “Go find Hotah. Tell him to desist.”

Mors bowed and scampered off. Doran looked at his feet, thinking about what to say to his brother. He observed the dead guard laying there. Only one guard. That was strange. He supposed no one thought Lord Tully was going anywhere, and no one considered that it would be Tully that needed the guard, not the other way around.

Doran was about to speak when a terrible sound came from the cell. Oberyn and his heads snapped toward it in unison. They walked into the cell, carefully stepping over Daemon Uller’s body. Blood was still draining slowly from a wound in his neck. His eyes were wide and glassy and staring at his killer.  
Hoster Tully seemed less willing to die. The maester hovered over his head, grasping it firmly. Doran could see a slice in his gut that must have been from Ser Jonothor on the Trident. Tully gave a deafening yell and pounded his fist on the wall. When the hand opened, Doran saw a deep gash as if he had grabbed the blade with his bare hand. The maester moved slightly, enough to give Doran a clear view. Blood covered half of Tully’s face so thickly Doran wondered how he had any left. Doran watched in queer fascination as a great bloody orb bubbled up from where his right eye should have been. 

“You’re cruel, maester. Prisoner or no, give the man milk of the poppy,” Oberyn told him, loud enough to be heard over Tully’s heavy breathing.

“I did, my prince,” the maester said through gritted teeth.

Doran could not help to have an admiration for the man. With Aerys as king, what did he have to live for, truly? Then he remembered the children back in Riverrun. Would he not fight tooth and nail the same, for Arianne and Quentyn?

“Brave man,” he murmured. 

“Almost dornish,” Oberyn agreed. 

As they turned around to leave, Oberyn nodded at Daemon Uller’s corpse. “Moreso than that one. I have no qualms killing a dying man, but Harmen was right. Can’t even do dishonor well.”

His face fell as they exited. Doran thought he would walk away in silence before Doran was able to say what he wanted to say, but instead Oberyn walked to the edge of the half-wall and looked down at the sprawling castle pensively. After a long moment, Doran took a place beside him warily. The wound in his chest bit deeper with every breath. 

“Ellaria will mourn for him anyways. I wrote to her, about Agmon and Armon. She…” he gave a small smile, tinged slightly with grief. “She is a good woman. Not half-mad like the others, or me. She’s…calmer. She has a gentle heart.”

Doran watched him carefully. He wondered why Oberyn was telling him this. He knew he had bedded Lord Harmen’s bastard, but she had never been a part of conversation. Doran had no memory of her. He had only met her once when she was half a child. He was not sure why Oberyn was telling him this now, or at all. The last time they had spoken he had told Doran he should have let him die, and now…he was baring himself, almost as if he were seeking Doran’s approval. Doran observed him for a long moment. Was this how he was making amends?

“You dealt with Lord Uller quickly,” Doran finally said.

“I didn’t know if you were awake,” he said defensively, a sharpness to his voice. “I’ve had to deal with things while you were hurt—“

“Oberyn! I’m not—“ he lowered his voice. “—accusing you. I’m thanking you. For…everything.” 

Oberyn stared at him, his thin eyebrows raising in surprise. For one second, he didn’t have a witty retort.

“What you said yesterday. You were…right. I should not doubt you. It was your impulsiveness that saved me, after all,” he gave a half-smile. “Thank you for not letting me die.”

Doran looked at his brother, who stared back in silence. He could see Oberyn sucking on the inside of his cheek, like he did when he was a boy. Then he turned away, scratching the side of his head nonchalantly.

“You should thank the quarrel that knocked you back so that deadly slice was little more than a cut,” he replied wryly. “I was only finishing what you could not.” 

_That was the heart of it, of everything between them._ Doran sighed and looked around carefully to make sure they were alone. Then he said in an earnest whisper, “Rhaegar will pay for what he has done, I assure you.”

Oberyn raised a hand in exasperation. “How? When? You’re only words, Doran.”

The accusation was more frustrated than cruel.

“You think only of Elia. I must think of Dorne as well, as firstborn.” 

“I think of you as well, brother,” he pointedly nodded at Doran’s chest. “And Dorne. You just think too much.”

“Thinking is what I do,” Doran said, remembering something similar his mother told him as a boy.

“Well, doing is what I do,” his brother retorted.

“What would you have me do?” he asked angrily. “Open rebellion? How many lives are worth our pride?”

“How many Dornish lives are worth Rhaegar’s follies?”

He took a long pause. So that is what Oberyn was suggesting. “None.” 

Oberyn gave a small laugh. “It seems we finally agree on something.” 

Even though no one was around, and Doran doubted anyone in Tully’s cell could hear them through the thick door over the clamor of the yard, Oberyn lowered his voice and said seriously, “When Rhaegar wakes, tell him. He marches back to King’s Landing and puts Elia in our care, or Dorne marches home.”

“No.” Doran replied immediately. “We cannot make demands of Rhaegar. Especially not when Aerys holds Elia. If Rhaegar refuses, and we march home, Elia dies.”

“Fine. We leave, but do not abandon. We choose our pickings like Lord Tywin and Lord Mace, and lay siege to our own castle.”

“That doesn’t help Elia,” Doran said, leaning against the wall. His shoulder was throbbing worse than ever, and he felt weak and light-headed.

“It gives incentives to our Dornish lords to stay away from home. We cannot get Elia back without them.” Oberyn paused, then said with a flick of his eyebrows, “See, I think of Dorne as well, brother.”

“That need never happen. Methinks we can convince our good-brother to return to King’s Landing gently.” He shut his eyes, trying to focus on the conversation. 

“Lord Tywin and Lord Mace have been told to send men to King’s Landing, no?” Doran opened his eyes again and gave a small smile. “Was that your idea, or Uncle’s?”

“Both.” 

So Oberyn had not sat idly beside his sickbed, stewing in anger. He had thought about what to do. _Dare I say Oberyn has a plan?_ The shock of it all. Was it exile that had tempered him, or Elia’s foreboding fate?

“Uncle will not even dance near treason,” Oberyn returned the smile. “Something about a vow and a white cloak. But he cannot deny he wishes Elia was in our hands. You know he begged Aerys to send her and Queen Rhaella to Dragonstone. King’s Landing is the best place for the armies to regroup. Lord Arryn must be rooted out of the Vale, and that will be folly unless we take the Royal Fleet to Gulltown.”

“And on the way, take Elia and her children to Dragonstone,” Doran concluded. He thought for a moment. Still, they would need a way to convince Aerys to give up Elia and her children. Plans upon plans, and yet nothing they planned could predict the madman. Would Aerys give up his leverage over Rhaegar, and Dorne? Perhaps they would simply take her by force…Aerys was finished. Everyone who was loyal to him sat on his great council, and everyone who was loyal to Rhaegar filled the sprawling Harrenhal. Would Rhaegar refuse—or would—

“And what if Rhaegar doesn’t wake for a month, Doran? Or never? Then what?”

Doran paused, thinking. He rubbed the bridge of his nose. They could not go to King’s Landing with an army without Rhaegar, that was certain. Nor could they write and ask Aerys for orders, as they almost certainly would not carry them out, and to not he would see as defiance. Finally he spoke.

“Until Rhaegar wakes, we have no option but to wait,” he said slowly. “If we leave him here, and take our men anywhere else, Aerys will see it as treason.”

Surprisingly, Oberyn didn’t argue, but gave a slight cock of his head and asked, “And if he dies?”

Doran refrained from sighing in exasperation. “It’s better for us if he lives.”

As much as he hated to admit it, Rhaegar had use beyond the two royal squirts he had planted in Elia, at least while the realm bled. No man in Harrenhal had more swords than the Prince of Dorne, but the rest of the army was undeniably loyal to Rhaegar. The realm would be hard to reunite without Rhaegar, and they needed it reunited. He had not been dragged from the Trident half-dead nor Elia imprisoned just to see Aegon inherit a fractured kingdom. The justice Rhaegar deserved would have to wait. 

“Yes. But is it better for us if he wakes in a month or better if he dies now?”

Doran considered. “If Rhaegar dies, Aerys will never release Aegon and Rhaenys, and Elia will never leave King’s Landing without them.”

“He may try to name Viserys as his heir. We cannot let that happen.”

“No, we cannot,” he agreed. But they had no control over what Aerys would do, regardless if Rhaegar was alive. He narrowed his eyes. “When did Uncle send the ravens to Lannister and Tyrell?”

“Not five days ago. How many men they send is tenacious at best. They will know Rhaegar is injured and may question the order, if their greed demands it. Lord Tywin wants Riverrun, I do not doubt it. Elia always said he was a man of great ambition.”

“And Tyrell? Is he at Storm’s End for greed or cowardice?”

Oberyn shrugged. “I only met him at Elia’s wedding.”

“Ah, yes. I recall,” he said, remembering the man. He was average height, and had the look of a man who had gone to seed already. “His eyes were bigger than his stomach.”

“Seems they still are,” Oberyn said slyly. 

“Nevertheless, we shall need them, if Rhaegar dies.” Doran paused. “We shall need their support at King’s Landing. We cannot crown Aegon without them.”

Oberyn’s eyes widened with shock, but he recovered his composure quickly. A smile crept on his face. “What you speak of is treason, my dear brother.”

Doran was in no mood to jest. “Without Rhaegar, Aegon will never be safe while Aerys lives. Without Rhaegar, there can be no Aerys. Our only course is to depose him, crown Aegon, and rule together till he comes of age.”

“Together?” Oberyn had a queer look on his face.

“Elia as the King’s mother, myself as regent, you as Hand. Oberyn…” he looked around. “Our enemies are all around us. One day, mother will be gone. It will just be us. I need to know you are with me.”

“My tongue and sword belong to Dorne, always.”

 _It’s your tongue and sword that has been my ruin._ “I need to know I’m not going to wake up and find I have to exile you again. I need you here, at my side. At Elia’s side.”

“I’m at your side, Doran. In compliance. In waiting. In treason.” He gave a wicked grin. Doran returned the smile with a shake of his head. 

What would Elia think of her two brothers planning on murdering her husband? He wondered if Oberyn truly could keep a secret from her. And if Elia knew…would she ever forgive them? He still remembered the letter he had received from her after Rhaegar had disappeared. It was the first letter she had pointedly refused to mention Rhaegar. _Come visit me, if you can. My heart would soar if I could see my brothers again, and for my son to meet his uncles._ If she had felt lonely then…how lonely must she feel now?

He watched the men down in the yard playing some absurd game like children, and he couldn’t help but remember watching Elia and Oberyn playing in the water gardens. Elia had loved to hold her breath, and Oberyn loved to fight boys bigger than he. He remembered counting for them, and Oberyn seeing if he could knock a boy down before Elia had to come up for air. He wished more than anything to be home, with his siblings and his mother, watching their own children play.

“What do you think to offer Lords Tyrell and Lannister in return?” Oberyn asked.

“What all men want. Power. Seats on the council, titles, marriages. Lord Tywin has a daughter—“

“No—“

“You’ll have to marry eventually—“

“No, I really do not—“ he argued. 

“And to think, you had just sworn yourself to me,” Doran teased. “It seems it was…what’s the phrase? Ah, yes. Only words.”

Now it was Oberyn’s turn to roll his eyes dramatically. He turned away, covering his laugh with his hand as Doran continued, “I hear she is beautiful.”

“You marry her then. She could look like Shiera Seastar and I’d still refuse.”

“Hm…let Elia marry Lord Tywin instead.”

Oberyn laughed. “Now this is why she hates us.”

A silence fell between them. A comfortable silence, Doran realized. He looked down at the yard below, where now they could make out a group of men trying to get two dogs to fight. For a moment, he almost stopped worrying about Elia.

“So…” Oberyn said casually, still looking down at the men below. “When do we decide that Rhaegar has slept too long?”

Doran fell silent. It was one thing to agree to treason…another to plan it. 

“He may yet live, if the gods are good,” Doran said. 

“And he can die later, when it’s more convenient,” Oberyn added nonchalantly. “If the gods are good, they will let me savor it. But the gods are rarely good. So how long, Doran?”

“Not yet. We need time. Aerys holds Aegon and Viserys. We should not kill him unless we must…or until Aegon is in our control. But it could look natural?”

“Like he just…never woke up.”

“How would you do it? Lewyn cannot know,” Doran said sharply. Then he added quietly, “I do not want to find out if the white cloak truly comes before the orange and red.”

“Worry not, sweet brother. I have no qualms killing a dying man as loathsome as that sack of worms who by some misfortune I must call my brother, but unlike Daemon Uller I know how to walk away without any inconvenient holes.”

Some men below had drifted away from the dog fight. Some commotion was disrupting the camp, but Doran could not make out the words of the shouting so far away. Men were running towards the dog fight frantically, tripping over benches and tents. Were they under attack? Surely Lewyn had posted scouts—but Doran’s hand went instinctively towards the sword at his side. The sudden movement of his arm reminded him violently of his injury as if he had forgotten.

A cry rang through the clamor, and soon a thousand cries were echoing it. “He’s awake! Prince Rhaegar lives! He’s awake!”

Doran’s hand about his belt relaxed, but every other muscle stiffened. He stared at the ensuing celebration with astonishment before slowly turning to his brother. When they saw the look on each other’s faces, they both burst into absurd laughter. Doran’s laughter ceased quickly, his heart pounding anxiously in his chest. 

“The seven have blessed us, brother, and surely saved us from some folly, it seems,” Oberyn laughed.

Doran shook his head in disbelief, watching the celebrations in the yard. The morning was filled with song and the smell of ale, as all the men began feasting like it was a coronation. Men were coming up the battlements near where they spoke, and one of Doran’s squires was rushing toward them, carrying wine.

“We never speak of this again,” Doran muttered. At least not until they could be sure of Aegon’s ascension…but that would be many years. 

Oberyn tsked as if to say that was obvious.

“Not even to Elia,” Doran said pointedly.

“I’m not mad,” Oberyn said by way of reply as one of Doran’s many squires poured wine into their goblets. 

Oberyn raised his glass, a twinkle in his eye. “To Rhaegar.”

“Rhaegar,” Doran agreed, and downed the wine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Man. Gotta love the Martells. I enjoy writing their dry wit and banter. If you can't tell, I much prefer writing dialogue over description or setting, but hopefully I can learn to enjoy writing that as well. Also, yay Hoster is alive, kind of. It seems Cat was misinformed. Though if he survives remains to be seen...
> 
> Having two Myles in one chapter is cruel of me, but alas, I don't choose the names. Also, let me know if I should use the chapter summary as a sort of "Previously On." As more characters and plots and subplots are introduced, I don't know how easy it will be to keep track of (I've lost track of a bit when I was writing future chapters!) As always, I love comments. It makes me more eager to post sooner.


	7. Doran

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "When your enemies defy you, you must serve them steel and fire. When they go to their knees, however, you must help them back to their feet. Elsewise no man will ever bend the knee to you."  
>  _A Storm of Swords_ , Tyrion VI

The merriment of the camp was palpable, but Doran Martell shared none of its carefree joy. Every breath pained him, but not near as much as every thought. His chest felt as though a fist was clenched around his stomach. Killing the Prince of Dragonstone…how could he have thought to be so bold and so foolish? Any food brought to him was left untouched, and only when he remembered that he hadn’t eaten for days while unconscious did he force himself to eat. 

Immediately after word of Rhaegar’s arousal reached him, he had sent a page to request a meeting with him. The page had returned, saying that the Prince of Dragonstone would not see anyone yet except his maester and the members of the kingsguard. Doran didn’t like that one bit, but at least Lewyn had Dornish interests in mind.

By mid-morning the page had returned, alerting them that tonight Prince Rhaegar himself would host a great feast in the hall and that he would be most pleased if Doran would attend and sit in honor with him at his right hand. It was expected of course, and he would have been offended if he was seated elsewhere, but he sincerely doubted sitting between Rhaegar and Oberyn for several hours would qualify as the relaxing recovery his maester had recommended. Nonetheless, if he could not meet with Rhaegar privately to convince him to return to King’s Landing, perhaps he could broach the subject while they dined. 

The great hall was full to bursting come sunset. Doran had never seen such a sight. It would be typical to host the greatest knights and lords in a main hall, with lesser lords and knights in a smaller hall while all the army feasted outside in tents. Harrenhal, however, could fit more than half the army within the great hall. The closer to Prince Rhaegar the more important you were, with the men-at-arms and even recruited lowborn peasants so far from the high table that Doran could hardly make it out as he processed pass them. 

The high table, like everything else in Harrenhal, was obtusely large. Lady Shella and her daughter sat at the high table as well. Lady Shella’s face was stone, her eyes worn and tired. Her remaining sons had perished on the Trident, and the name of House Whent perished also. Her daughter seemed far more animated, though perhaps out of necessity. Doran watched as a handsome knight came to speak to her as soon as another left her side. She was a fair maid, Doran supposed, though that hardly mattered now that she was heir to Harrenhal.

The lords were chattering amongst themselves restlessly. It was apparent everyone wanted to see the prince, to praise him, to ask for lands and titles, to demand to make their voice heard. 

“Lord Celtigar wants to march on the Bloody Gate immediately, as does Ser Mychah Hayford and the Bastard of Rosby. Mooton and Darry want to deal with Lord Tywin, and get their share of their liege’s lands. I have spoken to Lord Mooton, the foolish man, and told him that Tywin will march to King’s Landing as Lewyn ordered. Lord Tywin sent his own brother Kevan to let Rhaegar know of his undying loyalty. Methinks Rhaegar will have no option but to hold a court of sorts when he arrives, and it seems Lord Tywin thinks the same. He does not want Lannister interests forgotten,” Oberyn murmured to him, a thin eyebrow raised.

Doran nodded. “And Ser Barristan?”

“The man doesn’t have an independent thought. He will not attempt to sway Rhaegar any way.”

“Hm.”

Oberyn excused himself, and went over to talk to Ser Bonifer Hasty and the new Lord Connignton. 

Doran was talking with Lord Celtigar and his eldest son when a deafening cry rose from the heart of the room. He looked up to see Prince Rhaegar descend from his tower chambers, Ser Barristan and Ser Lewyn at his side. He walked slowly, perhaps because of his injury. He should be a corpse but instead he was shining, wearing a splendid tunic of blood red, his silver hair at his shoulders and his face proud. Doran was peaky and nauseous and weak, and yet Rhaegar looked like a god, a legend of old. The men were chanting his name, banging cups, and stomping their feet. For a moment Doran understood the madness Rhaegar inspired. How great a king he could be, if he remembered he was a prince and not a god. 

“Your grace,” Ser Myles Mooton bellowed over the noise. He stood up magnanimously. “Your leal friends and servants rejoice at your recovery!”

There were shouts of assent. Ser Myles turned to face the lords and knights.

“The rebels thought to stand against the might of the dragons, but Prince Rhaegar sent them back to the seven hells where they belong!”

The men hollered in approval. The sound vibrated Doran’s very core. Doran made note of the lords who only clapped politely, or did not clap at all. Ser Myles threw out his arm, pointing to a great warhammer another knight held before him.

“The great Stormlord. All quivered before him. Where are you, Lord Baratheon?”

A dark laugh rolled over the hall.

“And where is Prince Rhaegar, the last dragon?” he shouted, pointing to Rhaegar. 

The response was deafening. Men stomped their feet and clapped and shouted. _Had they forgot their dead? _Doran wondered. Rhaegar’s face was serious, like he did not need the praise. Like he deserved it. Doran glanced at Oberyn, whose smile did not reach his eyes.__

__Rhaegar made his way to the high chair. “My lords,” he said, and everyone hushed. “This victory does not belong to me alone, but to all. Let us feast our triumph as one realm!”_ _

__His voice echoed throughout the hall for a moment before a rumbling noise of approval shook the stones of the walls. Music began to play, and serving girls began to bring out wine and ale and dishes of sweet corn and venison and roasted boar, stews and soups and hot bread. Doran made his way to his seat beside Rhaegar before Oberyn could say something regrettable to him._ _

__“Your grace,” Doran began after he was seated, but a loud voice cut through the hall._ _

__“Your grace,” Lord Darry said, standing and turning to Rhaegar. “Jon Arryn and the Blackfish still defy us. The North lords have forgotten they owe allegiance to King’s Landing. We need to show them the might of the dragons! Ser Brynden marches west. We should crush him against Lord Tywin. If the Riverlands are secure, Stark and Arryn can never regroup.”_ _

__A few men murmured in agreement._ _

__“The lords of the North have no more interest in the South. They will not march to the aid of Riverrun or the Vale. The rebel alliance is dead. The northmen will fight over Winterfell like a mad dog over a bone,” the Lord of Skyreach said. “Jon Arryn is our true threat.”_ _

__“We must demand his surrender, your grace. We should march to the Bloody Gate and demand his full surrender—“ Ser Myles Mooton began before a voice cut him off._ _

__“That is folly. Lord Arryn would never surrender to an army outside the Bloody Gate. It is an empty threat. Should we assault the Bloody Gate, we would gain nothing but lost lives and time.” The voice came from proud Ser Alterys Velaryon. His young son was beside him, a boy no older than Arianne. “We must sail to Gulltown, and while Lord Arryn hides up in the Eyrie, set the Vale on fire. Then he will know the might of the dragons.”_ _

__“No.”_ _

__It was Rhaegar who spoke, his voice firm and even. A hush fell over the room, as everyone waited with baited breath to see what the silver prince would finally say.  
“Westeros has bled enough. I mean to bind up its wounds, not sow them with salt,” he said simply._ _

__“Certainly, your grace,” Ser Alterys conceded. “My men are weary of war. I would make a quick end to Lord Arryn’s resolve, so that hundreds of loyal men need not die attacking the Bloody Gate, nor scaling to the Eyrie. Send word to my brother, and the Royal Fleet can meet us in Maidenpool, to take us to Gulltown.”_ _

__Doran looked to Rhaegar for his response. He seemed to be considering. Doran glanced at Lewyn, who stood behind them. His face was unreadable. If Rhaegar was amenable to sailing from Maidenpool, perhaps he could be amenable to sailing from King’s Landing…_ _

__“Should we not secure the Riverlands before we sail to deal with Jon Arryn?” Lord Mooton said, his eyes wide._ _

__“That will take a year!” his brother replied impatiently. “The Blackfish is finished. Have you not been listening? The Riverlords lack the strength to defy us, even if they have the will. Once Lord Arryn surrenders, then we can force the Riverlords who still refuse to their knees. Send ravens to all the Riverlords, and demand they surrender and fight Jon Arryn with us.”_ _

__“Have you ever met the Blackfish, boy?” Lord Darry asked Ser Myles, who grew red with rage. “He was my squire, while you were still at your mother’s teat. He’s a clever man, and stubborn. I doubt he thinks he is finished.”_ _

__Ser Myles grabbed a dinner knife off the closest table and spat, “Then he’s a fool! A great a fool as a man who speaks to me thus!” He pointed the knife at Lord Darry, who looked close to laughing. That only made Ser Myles angrier. Around him started a great outcry. The daughter of Lady Whent gasped, while men yelled at him to drop the blade and stop his madness. _Did guest right still have worth, in a castle they had seized by force?_ Doran wondered. __

____

____

__

__Only when Rhaegar raised his voice and Ser Barristan partly unsheathed his sword did Ser Myles drop the knife back on the table. Doran glanced at Oberyn, who looked amused. A part of Doran smiled, wondering how much Rhaegar was sweating. Once the commotion died down and Ser Myles roughly removed his brother’s hand from his shoulder did his cousin Ser Dagos Manwoody speak. He stood up and faced Rhaegar._ _

__

__“Your grace, if we are to make war in the Vale, should we not have our full force? Send word to Mace Tyrell and Paxter Redwyne, and have them meet us in King’s Landing, that we may set out with a mighty fleet and show Lord Arryn how outnumbered he is.”_ _

__

__Several men murmured in agreement. Not many liked the possibility of Lord Mace taking Storm’s End for himself, it seemed._ _

__

__“The Royal Fleet is large enough to land us in Gulltown in glory. It is us who drove Jon Arryn to run into the hills and hide!” Ser Alterys said with fervor, hitting his chest with his fist. Lords and knights nodded in approval. “We should make an end to him, and an easy end for a traitor and a coward. He thinks he can hide behind his Bloody Gate, but when the three-headed dragon covers the horizon, he will quiver in fear. When he looks down on the Vale of Arryn, and sees our banners, he will surrender. When he sees Prince Rhaegar, ahorse in his rubied armor, he will know he has no power, and no hope if he resists, and—“_ _

__

__“Jon Arryn will never surrender.”_ _

__

__Heads swiveled to see Oberyn shaking his head._ _

__

__“Your meaning, ser?” Ser Alterys asked crisply, clearly annoyed._ _

__

__“He’s an old man. His cause is finished,” Oberyn said as if it was obvious. He didn’t even bother to stand up, but if anything people were quieter to hear him. Doran saw men craning their necks to see. “He rebelled to protect his foster sons, and they are now dead. He has no heir and no hope. But—he has not surrendered. Why is that? Because what we do makes no matter. We could water the Vale with Arryn blood, and tear the Eyrie from the sky. He will never surrender, nor will the Blackfish. King Aerys made sure of that when he killed Rickard and Brandon Stark.”_ _

__

__Silence followed this proclamation, then quiet murmurs._ _

__

__Rhaegar tilted his head and said, “Brandon Stark rode into King’s Landing and called for my death. Is that not treason?”_ _

__

__“So did all of Dorne. Yet here I am, fighting beneath your banner.” He gestured casually. “Am I to burn for my treasons as well, good-brother?”_ _

__

__Doran resisted rolling his eyes. _Oberyn, Oberyn, Oberyn. That tongue will be your undoing, and mine as well. _Men whispered among one another as Rhaegar regarded Oberyn, who returned his gaze unflinchingly.____

____

____

____

__“Dorne has shed blood beneath the dragon banner, and scattered the Northmen to the winds. Your glory shall not be unsung,” Rhaegar said regally, turning to Doran, and Ser Dagos and Lord Fowler and Lord Wyl. Then he turned back to Oberyn. “No one doubts your loyalty, Prince Oberyn, least of all me.”_ _

____

__“No one?” Oberyn smiled coldly. “Your father doubts it. He holds my sister to keep my mother loyal. If her people must fight the Vale to the last man, I’m sure they would fight much better knowing their honor and loyalty was not questioned.”_ _

____

__Rhaegar blinked slowly, his face calm._ _

____

__“Prince Oberyn speaks true. They will fight until death. That is their only choice,” Old Lord Fowler said in agreement. “Am I to stoop to be a butcher, and spend the last years of my life dragging men from their keeps, one by one?”_ _

____

__“You will do as Rhaegar commands!” Ser Myles said hotly. “You owe him your allegiance!”_ _

____

__But not many men seemed to share Ser Myles opinion. The room began to buzz as men agreed: they had answered King Aerys’s call, and broken the rebels. They were weary of this winter war, and had honored their allegiance. To ask them to tear down the Vale keep by keep would take years, and many of the lords did not share Ser Myles thirst for glory and adventure. Rhaegar held a hand up to Ser Myles. Doran watched Rhaegar carefully. Doran could not have the army dissolve, he needed it united, marching back to King’s Landing to get Elia. What happened after he hardly cared. Certainly the Vale would need to return to the fold eventually if Aegon was to rule over a united Westeros…but that was tomorrow’s problem._ _

____

__“Loyal men do not go unrewarded in my service,” Rhaegar said loud enough to be heard over the murmuring discontent. “I see now that my father neither ruled nor rewarded justly. I will attempt to set things right.”_ _

____

__He stood up and turned to Doran. “Dorne has always been a friend of House Targaryen. I will not take that friendship for granted.” _You already have, fool. Aerys may have Elia imprisoned, but you ran off with the Stark girl, _Doran thought angrily, though his face remained the same.____

____

____

_____ _

__Rhaegar continued, “I would have us march to King’s Landing to meet the Royal Fleet. My good wife Princess Elia has long spoke of wishing to see her mother. I would have her weather the war in Sunspear.”_ _

_____ _

__“My mother will be pleased,” Doran replied. “Nor will her sons forget this display of friendship. Dorne has always been loyal to House Targaryen, and that will never change, my prince.”_ _

_____ _

__Rhaegar nodded solemnly. _Elia, _Doran thought, his heart lightening with relief. Now, if Aegon and Rhaenys were to go with her…that was something they must discuss in private.____

____

____

_____ _

__“Your grace, are we to regroup with Lord Mace in King’s Landing?” Lord Ronnet Connignton asked._ _

_____ _

__“They cannot abandon the siege. Lord Baratheon must be torn down, just as Jon Arryn,” Lord Celtigar said._ _

_____ _

__“Your grace, if we cannot pillage, how are we to pay our men?”_ _

_____ _

__“And ourselves,” Lord Rosby muttered loudly._ _

_____ _

__“We are loyal. Why are we to be punished, and not the rebels? Their lands and titles should be forfeit to the crown, to give to loyal men.”_ _

_____ _

__“If Jon Arryn will never surrender, are we to scale the Eyrie? The Eyrie has never been taken by storm!”_ _

_____ _

__Doran watched as they laid their demands and questions and discontent upon Rhaegar’s silver shoulders. For the briefest moment Doran saw Rhaegar’s mouth twitch in pain, and Doran had no sympathy for him. His mother had once told him that Dorne united beneath the sun and spear had no equal, but if he could not win loyalty, unity would be his greatest adversary. Many an enemy has fallen when his lords stopped bickering amongst themselves, but so have many princes, she had told him._ _

_____ _

__“My lords!” Ser Myles stood up, quelling the noise. “Ser Ellis spoke true. Why are we to be punished for King Aerys’s crimes? Crimes, I say! And call me a traitor, and I will deny it, but I cannot deny his crimes. Rickard Stark was Lord of Winterfell, but found no justice in King’s Landing, only madness. King Aerys breaks his oaths to his lords, and yet expects us to keep our oaths to him. Where is the honor in that? How can we expect our loyalty to be rewarded by a man who does not understand loyalty?”_ _

_____ _

__A shocked silence filled the room. _No. No. No. _Doran’s heart was beating fast, pounding so hard on the broken ribs he felt faint.____

____

____

______ _ _

__“If I am a traitor, Aerys was a traitor first. My sword is sworn to House Targaryen, and always will be. But it is not Aerys who has given me justice or reward, nor is it he who seeks to protect my rights. It is not Aerys whose banner I bled under! I said before, where is Lord Baratheon? But now I ask you, loyal men, where is Aerys? Burning his kingdom to ash, while his son binds up its wounds! Jon Arryn and Brynden Tully will never surrender while the Mad King sits upon the throne. Their only hope is our only hope—that the true Dragon lord takes his rightful place!” He pointed to Rhaegar._ _

______ _ _

__No, Doran thought frantically, trying to make his muddled mind think. He must say something, he must do something. But all his weary brain could think was _no, no, no! _For once he found himself begging Oberyn to do something rash, anything, anything to stop this madness. Oberyn was looking at him, his nostrils flared. His eyes were wide with anger, with fear.____

____

____

_______ _ _ _

__“My sword and life are yours, always, King Rhaegar,” Ser Myles said seriously, kneeling before the silver prince._ _

_______ _ _ _

__For a moment, silence fell, and Doran prayed to all the gods it would never end—_ _

_______ _ _ _

__“The mad king can keep his eunuchs and sycophants. There is no greater sin than weakness, and no greater virtue than strength. Your grace has shown us your worth upon the Trident. King Rhaegar!” Ser Bonifer Hasty said, kneeling beside Ser Myles._ _

_______ _ _ _

__“All the might of Casterly Rock belongs to you, King Rhaegar,” Ser Kevan Lannister said, kneeling._ _

_______ _ _ _

__“And all of Darry. King Rhaegar!” Lord Darry agreed._ _

_______ _ _ _

__“King Rhaegar!”_ _

_______ _ _ _

__“The Last Dragon!”_ _

_______ _ _ _

__“KING RHAEGAR!”_ _

_______ _ _ _

__Doran didn’t move. His headache was worse than ever, beating on the inside of his skull as his heart beat on the inside of his ribs. He watched the wave of men fall to their knees, his ears buzzing. And there was Rhaegar aglow in firelight, looking like a king. He couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t think. _Elia. Forgive me… _____

____

____

_______ _ _ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you guys enjoyed it! Not much to say on this chapter, save that keeping a feudal army united is difficult, especially when its purpose and goals become unclear. So it seems Doran got what he wanted (a united army going back to get Elia) in the worst way possible...because as much as Doran and Oberyn care about Elia, her safety is not enough to keep an entire army united, no more than rescuing Sansa and Arya from KL was enough to keep Robb's army together. When it comes down to it, everyone wants something, and Rhaegar being king seems a pretty strong incentive for many, especially if you compare serving him vs serving Aerys.
> 
> Again, the rules of italics are eluding me...


	8. Renly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Yields?" Lord Rowan laughed. "When Mace Tyrell laid siege to Storm's End, Stannis ate rats rather than open his gates."
> 
> "Well I remember." Renly lifted his chin to allow Brienne to fasten his gorget in place. "Near the end, Ser Gawen Wylde and three of his knights tried to steal out a postern gate to surrender. Stannis caught them and ordered them flung from the walls with catapults. I can still see Gawen's face as they strapped him down. He had been our master-at-arms."
> 
>  _A Clash of Kings,_ Catelyn IV

The feast was large and full of grandeur, as fit the occasion, his brother said. There had been roast boar with pears, goose stuffed with squash and peas and fish and clams and a sweet white sauce. The hall was full of laughter and song. They drank and hollered, but none drank or hollered louder than Robert, and the men seemed to love him for it. Renly couldn't help to as well. Robert had won a grand battle—not one, but three. He had returned to Storm's End a hero. Renly had never smiled so much. Robert wasn't in Storm's End often, and when he was he never had time for Renly. But that night, Robert let him drink as much wine as he wished and taught him how to hit a boy to the ground. He could still remember Robert's laughter when Renly pinned a squire from House Swann to the hard floor of the feasting hall. Men had been whooping and shouting advice and drinking and gambling as they scuffled. It was the happiest night of Renly's life. The only person who wasn't smiling was Stannis. 

Near a year had passed and Stannis still was not smiling. Renly was standing in the balcony above the yard, hungry and shivering next Maester Cressen. They had been in the maester’s chambers, trying to ignore the sound of the army feasting outside until they heard the shouting. Maester Cressen had rushed from the room, Renly at his heels. The yard was full of men, though it was quiet and still, the only sound a rumble of thunder. Renly looked up at the dark sky, wondering if it would rain. When he looked down he could see his brother Stannis amidst the small crowd. His face was gaunt, his cheeks were hollow, and his eyes were like dark pits. Renly looked around, trying to see what Stannis was staring at, but he couldn’t tell from where Maester Cressen had made his perch. A shout came from the distance. Renly craned his head, trying to see better.

The shouting became louder, and suddenly the men in the yard were parting like a stream before a rock. In the half-light Renly saw Ser Gawen, their master-at-arms, approaching Stannis. He was walking strangely, as if he was injured. Renly became frightened. He hoped Ser Gawen wasn’t hurt too badly. He had served as master-at-arms for as long as he could remember. He had taught his older brothers how to fight, and had begun to teach Renly as well. It wouldn’t be fair if he got too injured to teach him like he had his brothers. Had the army begun to attack? Renly was terribly confused. Then he saw that two men had their hands on Ser Gawen’s shoulders, and were shoving him roughly across the yard. Renly darted down the stairs so he could hear. 

“Renly!” Maester Cressen hissed quietly after him, but it was too late. Renly was already down the steps and weaving across the yard. 

“The castle is lost!” Renly heard Ser Gawen say angrily to his brother as he approached. Renly was just behind Stannis now. Ser Gawen had once taught Stannis how to use sword and lance and bow when he was Renly’s age, but now Stannis towered over him. Renly felt a drop of water hit his nose. He rubbed it off and looked up. A raindrop hit Renly’s forehead, then another. He could hear the rain bounce on Ser Gawen’s plate armor. _Tink, tink, tink._

“If you had your way, it would be,” Stannis replied, his teeth clenched. “You are a traitor to Storm’s End.”

“It’s our only hope! You must see that, my lord,” Ser Gawen entreated. 

Renly looked at Stannis, then back at Ser Gawen. _Tink, tink, tink._

“I’ll have no more of this begging. These men are traitors and cowards,” Stannis announced, but he was still staring at Ser Gawen. A flash of lightening illuminated a vein in his jaw. Renly glanced up in fright. “You taught me neither are fit for Storm’s End.” 

“Stannis, son, please,” Ser Gawen said. Stannis clenched his jaw so tight Renly thought his teeth would shatter.

“Tell Lord Tyrell I have no intention of surrendering.”

Ser Gawen furrowed his brows in confusion, his mouth open as if to ask a question.

Stannis nodded grimly at one of the men holding Ser Gawen’s arms. “Tie them to the catapults and fling them from the castle.”

Ser Gawen blanched. His legs gave out from under him, but the men holding his arms kept him upright. 

“No,” Ser Gawen said, his voice hardly more than a whisper. “No!”

His voice grew louder as the men dragged him away toward the great catapult raised up nearby. His face was contorted in fear. “Please, my lord, I beg you, for the love I bear you, for the love I bore your father, have mercy!”

Renly didn’t understand what was happening. He looked up at Stannis, who didn’t seem to notice his presence. Renly saw Stannis’s hand in a shaking fist by his side. Water ran like teardrops from his fist. _Tink tink tink._ Renly blinked the rain out of his eyes. 

There were three other men being herded toward the catapult as well. One was shrieking a terrible noise that cut at Renly’s bones as if someone was trying to scrape off his flesh. Raindrops played a dancing tune on their armor, a great roar of thunder rumbled through the castle like a drum...but the loudest sound was the shrill chorus of the men’s fear. Renly covered his ears with his hands. 

“Stannis!” Renly said, his voice high and scared. The cold rain had begun to make him shiver. He watched as the brave man who had taught him to hold a sword sobbed and begged for mercy. Stannis had no ears for Renly’s voice. He only had ears for the four yelling men.

“My lord,” came Maester Cressen’s voice from behind Renly. Renly did not turn around. Like his brother, he only had eyes for Ser Gawen. Ser Gawen was turning his head around as strong arms strapped him to the catapult. “Do not fling them from the wall.”

“Please! MERCY!”

“There is no mercy for traitors, no matter their station,” Stannis snapped at Maester Cressen. “I suggest you go back to your grey tower, Maester, if you do not have the stomach for it.”

Gawen writhed in his chains like a fish on a hook. Renly retched and expelled his entire dinner on his boots. Or, he would have, if he had eaten any dinner. Nothing came up, so he gasped, his hands on his knees. Stannis finally seemed to notice him. He looked down at him for a moment as Renly wiped the spit off his chin. Renly was too weak and tired to feel ashamed.

Maester Cressen spoke again. “I do not beg for mercy for them. But should the siege persist must longer, we may have to eat the dead to endure. If so, we should not waste what little resources we have.”

 _Tink. Tink. Tink._ Stannis’s frown remained unmoved, but he looked at the maester for a long moment. Renly saw his eyes flick down and meet his own for a brief second. Then he turned away and ordered the four traitors be locked in cells. _Eat them?_ The thought made Renly sick again. He was aware of Maester Cressen talking, but he didn’t hear the words. He just watched dazedly as Ser Gawen was untied and dragged away, weeping. 

The next morning, Renly did not want to get out of bed. He had hardly slept. Every time he shut his eyes, he saw the look on Ser Gawen’s face and he felt he was going to be sick. And Stannis…he had never been frightened of Stannis before. Stannis had always ordered him about crossly, but no matter what Renly did, he never hit him, not even a cuff on the ear. He shivered in fear, thinking of Stannis’s face this time, not Ser Gawen’s. 

He sighed, kicking his blanket off him. His bare feet looked small and white and bony, the skin stretched so thin across them. The pain in his stomach was now a pain in his head. He thought that maybe if he cried, the pain would go away, but he couldn’t find the strength. When Ser Gawen was led away he had begun to weep until Stannis scolded him. _Save your tears for someone deserving, Renly. If he had his way, you’d be dead._ But that had only made him cry more. He had always liked Ser Gawen. Why would he have wanted him dead? 

He lay in his bed until midday, and no one came and made him get up. Stannis always woke up early, no matter what, and insisted Renly did as well. But the servants never came. Renly wondered why as he stared out the window, watching the sun try to pierce through the clouds. 

Then he saw it, three black shapes, and he sat up quickly. Too quickly, in truth. His head was spinning as he raced towards the window and clutched to its edge. They were ravens, sure enough, three of them, heading right towards the castle. He saw one dip suddenly away from the others. Another joined it. Renly watched in confusion before he realized they were falling. Renly gritted his teeth as he watched the last raven, hoping—no, praying it would make it to the rookery. As soon as it was past the outer wall Renly gave a grin. A raven! No doubt it was from Robert with another one of his victories. He rushed about his rooms quickly to dress. A raven was the most exciting thing that had happened for months. Well, except for the catapult, but Renly quickly put that out of his mind before he could dwell on it again.

As soon as his shirt was mostly on, Renly dashed from his room, leaving the door wide open behind him. He ran to Stannis’s solar as fast as he could. Well, it was Robert’s solar, he supposed, but he never remembered Robert using it. He was lightheaded and breathing hard by the time he got to the door. He banged on it loudly, panting.

“Stannis! Stannis!” he gasped. After a moment Renly heard footsteps, and then the door was thrown open. Stannis stood there, pale as a ghost, his face unshaven. Even with his short beard Renly could see the hollowness in his cheeks. He looked scarier than usual, with his eyes like holes in his head, blue and angry, all the time.

Before he could say anything, Renly asked, “Where's the maester? Did he come yet? Three ravens! Two were shot down—I saw it—but the other one made it! What did it say?"

"Enough noise, Renly," his brother said in irritation as he turned around and went back into the room. He didn’t shut the door in Renly’s face, though, so Renly followed him. "You make such a loud racket for such a small person." 

"I'll be taller than you, one day. You'll see. Taller than Robert, too," Renly insisted as he trailed behind him into the solar. The room was large, with a grand view over the sea. Maester Cressen was nowhere to be seen, so Renly said, “I saw the raven. Let's go to the rookery. I bet it's from Robert, and he's going to come lift the siege."

"Cressen will bring it here if it's important. Do you want me to send you to your room before he comes?" Stannis threatened. 

"No, brother," Renly said submissively. 

"Then stop jabbering like a child," he instructed him.

Renly pouted. "I'm not a child," he huffed.

Stannis just looked at him in annoyance, and Renly sat down before Stannis could tell him to leave. Several moments passed in silence. Stannis resumed looking out the window at all the ships, his teeth grinding the only thing that filled the silence. Renly sat there waiting for Cressen, his anticipation slowly turning to boredom. The excitement of the ravens had made him forget how hungry he was for a brief moment, but he started to feel the ache again. He couldn't remember the last time he wasn't hungry. Months ago, probably. He sighed and rested his elbow on the chair. If he was a wizard, he would magick them food. Roasted pig and cinnamon apples and thick cheese and milk and--

A knock came from the door and Renly jumped up eagerly. Stannis turned from the window as Maester Cressen walked in. 

"News from the Trident, my lords," he said in a solemn voice. Renly bounded to Stannis's side as he took the letter. Renly saw the seal was broken; Maester Cressen had read it. Stannis took the letter brusquely.

Renly went on his tiptoes to try to read it, but he wasn't tall enough or good enough at reading yet. He waited patiently, staring at Stannis. His brother's face was stone, the permanent frown etched on it. It was a long time before Stannis spoke. Renly began to scratch his nails together impatiently. The letter couldn’t be that long. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, Stannis nodded grimly and turned back to the window.

"Fool," He muttered angrily. Then he turned back to Maester Cressen. "Tell me maester, who is the greater fool? Rhaegar Targaryen for absconding with the Stark girl, or my brother for still wanting to take her to wife?"

Cressen stared at him mutely. 

"Or me, for choosing blood over honor?" Stannis added bitterly.

"You choose blood and honor, my lord. Robert was both blood and liege, and Aerys wanted his head--"

"And now he has it. Fool," Stannis said through gritted teeth. 

Cressen was silent. Renly looked back and forth between them, trying to understand what was happening. His head pounded on the inside of his skull, making it hard to focus.

"I chose my liege over my king. And I will pay the price same as Robert, though my end far slower and less glorious," Stannis said flatly. "It is only fitting. I can't even die as well as Robert." 

"My lord, the future is unwritten," Cressen entreated. 

"Are you a maester or a bard? We starve or we burn.” Stannis’s eyes were wide, and Renly shrunk in fear as Stannis’s strained voice began to rise, louder than Renly had ever heard it inside.

“And I will not watch that…that..." Stannis’s voice cracked as he pointed ferociously at the ships on the sea. " _...fat flower_ sit in the high chair of my father's castle.”

Renly saw that he was quivering in anger. Renly quivered as well, though in fear. Stannis's chest heaved with each breath, but Renly wasn't breathing at all. Maester Cressen lowered his eyes respectfully. 

Stannis swallowed noticeably. When he spoke again, his voice was lower, like normal. As angry and curt as normal. “Save your breath, maester. I'm not yielding Storm's End." 

Cressen nodded. "No. No, you cannot," he agreed quietly. 

Stannis set his jaw and looked back at the letter. His face was paler than usual, and the vein in his temple threatened to explode. His eyebrows were furrowed as he examined the letter, but Renly saw his eyes weren't moving. The silence was deafening. 

"Robert will come back to lift the siege, won't he, Stannis?"

"Robert is dead," his brother said bluntly. 

Unbidden, tears came to his eyes. Renly began to cry, and hid his face in his arms. Surprisingly, Stannis didn't order him to stop. He could hear Stannis talking to Maester Cressen, but Renly had trouble concentrating on what they were saying. Robert was dead. He couldn’t truly be dead. Robert was strong, strong as an ox. The strongest man alive, everyone said so. He could pick Renly up with one arm and toss him like a skipping stone. How could he be dead? After awhile, Renly looked up. He wondered how long had past, an hour, maybe more. Cressen had gone. His brother, his only brother, was still there, looking stoically across the ocean filled with enemy ships. Renly wiped his nose on his sleeve, trying not to whimper too loudly. 

“This is where I was, when I watched Mother and Father die. Where we were,” Stannis said quietly, still looking out the window. Renly was unsure if Stannis was talking to him.

Renly’s sob turned into a cough. It turned violent, and Renly felt again that feeling of weakness. He leaned against the wall while Stannis forced a cup of water in hands. When he finished the drink he was panting. Only then did Renly realize Stannis’s hand was on his shoulder holding him up. The grip was tight, almost painful. Stannis took the cup from him. 

"Stannis,” he said, his voice high and frightened. “Are we going to die?" 

Stannis looked at him. For the first time, Renly realized that Robert and Stannis had the same color eyes. He had never really thought about it before. Robert’s eyes were always laughing, though, and shining with life. The blue eyes that looked at him now were flat, almost dead. Stannis didn’t look away from him as he ground his teeth and said, "Get some rest, Renly."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nothing like trauma and potential cannibalism for fun brotherly bonding times, amirite? (Really makes me consider in canon how much Renly's betrayal of Stannis hurt when Stannis protected him from the Tyrells when he was a child). What will the Baratheon bros do without Ned to come lift the siege is the real question...
> 
> Hope you guys are enjoying thus far; I'm enjoying writing this. From the comments it seems like everyone is keen to see Lyanna...I am no stranger to the fact that everybody has a strong opinion about Lyanna in this fandom, haha. I hope to do her justice with what we know of her in canon. She certainly has a lasting impression on those she knows, much like Elia (two tragic deaths in canon that have so much impact on the plot in asoiaf). I have been working on some chapters with her so she's in the future but not the super near future. We shall see Elia first.


	9. Catelyn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "And who would keep you safe, my lady?"  
> Her smile was wan and tired. "Why, the men of my House. Or so my lady mother taught me. My lord father, my brother, my uncle, my husband, they will keep me safe . . ."  
>  _A Clash of Kings,_ Catelyn VI

Catelyn Tully had not slept for three days. There had been little time, and when the exhaustion crept up on her, her fear chased it away. The knights of Riverrun were reveling in the glory of their victory, but the merriment had a hollow ring. Lord Tywin had been thrown back, but he had not been vanquished. The Lannister army still surrounded Riverrun, like crows about a corpse.

As she saw it, the future was grim. The best she could hope for was her uncle returning with Lord Arryn to smash the lions against the river. But if what the messengers said was true, that seemed a child's dream. Lord Tywin would wait them out or come to battle. They had plenty enough stores, but Lord Tywin had a supply train from Casterly Rock. If it came to endurance, Lord Tywin would win. If it came to battle, Lord Tywin would win. He would lose half his army to be sure, but Riverrun would fall. He had the numbers. And if it fell...she thought of the Reynes of Castamere and the Tarbecks of Tarbeck Hall and shuddered. Her only hope—Riverrun's only hope—was that Lord Tywin would choose to wait it out and she would pray for a miracle. The gods had saved Riverrun once. Surely they would save it again. If not, why would they spare her to take her life a few days later?

An eerie quiet hung over the castle like a mourning shroud. She looked out the window of her father's solar, observing how the moon flickered on the rushing river. She tried to ignore the campfires all along the horizon, dotted about like the stars above. There was something beautiful about it, she realized strangely. Like the night sky had blanketed the cold earth in a quilt of stars. Perhaps it was the likelihood of her death that made her so tranquil. Her baby boy shifted in her arms. She smiled sadly, turning her face towards him. He was so beautiful. So small. She wondered if she would ever get to see him grow tall. How much like Edmure he looked…Edmure. Would she ever see him again?

She had grown used to waiting on her father when he went away. _Watch for me, little Cat,_ he would say. She wondered if he was watching her now. _Now you must wait for me, father._ Each dawn brought the silent dread of wondering whether her next sleep would be the long rest from which she never woke again. Each twilight brought a sigh of relief. Never before had darkness been so calming. One moment she would wish that time would slow, that she could have just one more moment to hold her babe’s little hand. The next moment she begged for the horrid anticipation would end. She had never felt at such a loss. She had never felt more helpless. She had done all she could to prepare Riverrun. Now she must await her fate.

No, she told herself. Riverrun would not fall. It could not fall. Her father would never sit and fret. House Tully had never knelt to lions, and Catelyn Tully did not intend to start now. There had to be something she could do. Anything. _Anything._

Then it came to her: Tygett Lannister. Surely he had some knowledge of his brother and the army she could make use of. He must know something, and she could question him—make him talk if she must. She considered for a while before deciding if that was a wise course of action. Her father never hastened into plans, and she would not either. Lannister was wounded and shackled, she finally concluded. There is no harm in it, but perhaps great gain. She returned to her own chambers to give her babe to the nurse and summoned Ser Desmond. Even with Lannister bound, it was unwise to visit him unguarded. She would have brought Ser Denys, but…gods rest his soul. Ser Hegel had guarded her well enough after the battle, but he was proud and quick to anger. Neither would be useful while she tried to convince Lannister to speak.

They walked together in silence until they reached the door, two guards on either side. One immediately opened the door for them, and led them inside.  
The room was dark, only the moon, stars, and the torches outside lighting it. She had given Lannister a room instead of a cell, but it seemed a waste of wood to keep the fire going comfortably. He was too valuable to let die—in truth, he was the most valuable thing she had for their defense, save for the walls and the rivers. But that didn’t mean she wouldn’t leave him to shiver.

He was sitting in the bed, staring out the small window at the army surrounding them. He had a thick blanket over him. When they entered he turned, and Catelyn could hear the sound of his chains clinking. One look and you could see his Lannister blood, with his curly golden hair and green eyes flecked with gold. He was not as handsome as his brother, nor as tall, nor as famed. _Perhaps he was not as cruel or as unforgiving, either,_ she thought hopefully.

“Lady Stark,” he said in a voice that could bite through steel plate. No one had ever called her that.

“Though I suppose that’s not right anymore. Lady Catelyn, then. I heard about your father and his army. I offer my sincerest condolences,” he said in the least sincere voice she could imagine. Catelyn’s anger caught in her throat. She flared her nostrils and braced herself.

He waited noticeably for a response. She had hoped time in solitude and the pain in his leg would leave him slow of wit and loose of tongue. He stared at her a long moment before saying, “War is hardly a reason for me to forget my courtesies, my lady. I bear you no ill will. It is only by sheer misfortune we find ourselves in opposition.”

“I must be twice unlucky,” she returned dryly. “My misfortune not only to live in a castle, but also to have neighbors of such great ambition.”

“You are not alone in your misfortune,” he gave a dramatic sigh and clinked the chains about his wrist together. “It seems a great many have suffered at the hands of Lannister ambition. Most like a great deal more will join them. I would not worry too much after them, my lady. You are not without your fortunes. Twice cursed, perhaps, but thrice blessed. Just as I am.”

She regarded him warily. “Thrice blessed?”

“You bear a great name, you hold a rich keep, and you are as fair as summer’s eve,” he replied with a half-smile that might have been charming if he had not grimaced in pain partway through. She had permitted the maester to tend to him, but she had not wasted any milk of the poppy on him. He grit his teeth in anger and tried to stifle a gasp. “Almost beautiful enough to forgive that bite you gave me. That is no blessing to be ignored, Catelyn Tully.”

Catelyn swallowed. _Almost._ “Thank you, ser,” she replied rigidly. “And your blessings?”

“Why, it’s much the same,” he said, brushing the unwashed golden hair out of eyes. “I bear a great name, I sit in a great keep of an unwed woman who came to visit me. And she is beautiful. I had heard you were...but when I pictured meeting you, you were the one in chains. I thought we’d be like Orys and Argella.”

He laughed bitterly. _Orys and Argella?_ Were these all taunts, or was there truth hidden inside? Did Lord Tywin did not intend to kill them all? He meant to lay claim to Riverrun through _her,_ she realized. Her face must have shown something, because Lannister noticed it and smiled, one eye still shut through the pain.

“You have no desire to be Lady Lannister? I assure you: I will last much longer than your Lord Stark.”

“You only live at all by my command,” she said tersely. “A bold statement, when you can die by it just as easily.”

“You wouldn't be so cold to kill a suitor, would you?”

The gall of it shocked her. “I'm less inclined to suitors who ram my father's gates and scale my father's walls and slay my father's men.”

He didn’t seem phased at all by the accusation. He shrugged slightly. “All tales of romance root in blood and war. Why should ours be any different?”

In the dark, his green eyes shined black when he spoke. He did not smile, forced or otherwise. “Ours may not have much blood yet, but of death there has been plenty.”

Without warning, the sounds of the drowning men filled her ears again, and she blinked quickly. _Don’t think of that. Don’t._

He snapped his jaw shut as he glanced out the window at the rushing river. “You surprised us there, I’ll admit it, even if Tywin never will. My brother had hoped you'd surrender the castle when you saw the army.” His voice was dark when he said his brother’s name, and full of anger he didn’t even try to hide. He turned back to her curiously. “But you didn’t…so he said he’d give me all the Trident if I took Riverrun for him. Imagine it. I would finally be his _equal._ ”

There was a smile on his lips. A wistful smile. “And I’d get my pick of Lord Tully’s daughters. He said I could choose, but I can't imagine your sister is near as interesting as you. She's still a girl, is she not? You're a woman. I need a woman, not a girl. I’d make a good husband for you, I think,” he said with a smile. It wasn’t wistful anymore. It was cruel and mocking.

“I would _never_ marry you,” Catelyn said angrily.

“Why not? I am not so bad a husband. I am of noble birth and rank and blood, a respected warrior and commander, a lion of the rock. Most importantly, I’m the only one who can save your life. My brother had planned to give you to me after we took the castle, but now…I wonder if Tywin will be so kind after your trick with the ice. That was you, was it not? That was clever for a woman. I doubt my brother liked that at all. A Lannister always pays his debts.” He flicked up an eyebrow.

She stared at him stonily.

“But—if you marry me, you will have my name, and my protection. I’m the only one who can protect you from Lord Tywin’s wrath now,” he grinned. “The king shall grant me Riverrun, and you can be my Lady Tully to bind the riverlords to me. I'll only beat you once for shooting a quarrel in my leg, which is less than most men would do. I'll even do it now, if you like, and take you over my knee and slap that nice arse of yours.”

Ser Desmond made a noise of anger, but Catelyn jabbed Lannister as hard as she could, right on his leg wound. He gave a cry of pain, his hands going toward the wound, swearing. Catelyn jumped back quickly, breathing heavily. She could feel hot blood in her face and chest; she could feel her anger trying to mask her fear.

He swore again through gritted teeth, his eyes shut tightly as his body curled up instinctively. But then his swearing turned to laughter and he chuckled, “You bite like a lion. Seems for all your protests, perhaps you were born to be a Lannister after all. Bet Stark couldn’t handle you. Take off my chains and I’ll show you how husbandly I can be.”

Ser Desmond and herself wore matching looks of rage. Did this man not treat his own life with gravity?

“Do you wish to die, ser, is that it?” Ser Desmond demanded.

Lannister turned his angry green eyes from Catelyn to Ser Desmond. “You know, I don’t really know why you are here,” he said curtly before he turned back to Catelyn, ignoring Ser Desmond completely. “I only wish to give you proof of my worth as a suitor. We can wait till we’re wed, if it please you, my lady.”

“It would please me to watch you die slowly in a crow cage, ser,” she replied, her hands shaking with fury, her mouth a thin line.

“Then do it,” he challenged. “Like you said, I live and die at your command.”

It was silent for a moment. She could hear the rush of the Trident, and beneath it the sound of a hundred screams. He stared hard at her, the mocking smile on his lips gone.

“If your brother storms the castle, you will be the first to die,” she assured him.

He made a face as if that was obvious. “If he st—?” he laughed and shook his head. “If I die, you die too. Our fates are bound, Catelyn Tully.”

He was smiling again, but she saw that he truly believed it. That is not what concerned her at the moment.

“He will storm the castle then? He will not wait us out?”

He glanced between her and Ser Desmond. “That’s it? That’s why you are here? You want to know if my brother will storm the castle even after you’ve shown him I’m imprisoned?”

Her eyes flicked towards Ser Desmond. He had a frown etched so deep on his face that Catelyn wondered if she would ever see him smile again.

“Will he?” she demanded him.

“Does it matter? Riverrun will fall either way. I doubt you have any more tricks hidden under your skirt.”

“Riverrun will never fall,” she told him, as if that would make it true.

“No?” he said skeptically. “Then why are you here, Lady Catelyn? I can tell it’s not for the pleasure of my company. If Riverrun cannot fall, why am I alive? I’m your last shield against my brother. But I assure you, if we are not wed, that shield is nothing. Hostage or corpse, it makes no matter. My brother will storm the castle, and you will kill me, and he will kill you,” his eyes were green ice. “Perhaps he’ll spare your sister instead, and marry her to my cousin.”

“You’re lying,” she said. He had to be. If what he said was true, then she should have killed him in the yard when he fought Ser Robin. He had to be lying. He was not just any hostage. He was Lord Tywin’s brother. That had to be worth something. It just had to be.

“If I thought my life would give pause to my brother’s assault, I would have jumped from this window. Don’t look at me like that—we Lannisters have our own ‘Family, Duty, Honor.’”

She scoffed. “You know nothing of honor.”

“I know enough,” he said shortly. “And I know about war. Holding me might have made a difference if it was my father. My father would march his army home after kissing your hand and begging your pardons and trust that you'd release me afterwards. But it's my great brother you’re dealing with, not my father. You'll get nothing for stitching me up.”

“And why not?”

“My lady, haven't you heard? Tywin despised our father. The toothless lion, they called him. Tywin showed House Lannister still had bite. Tywin showed Lannisters still have claws. I assure you, my life is worth far less than Lannister pride.”

It was silent for a long moment. _Lannister pride. Had pride ever sounded so full of resentment?_ Catelyn was thinking deeply. Finally she said, “And if I did marry you? Riverrun would be left unspoiled?”

She felt Ser Desmond’s eyes on her, but he did not speak.

“Untouched. I will rule the Trident from your father’s seat, and our sons after.”

“And my siblings? They will be unharmed?”

“They will be treated gently,” he assured her solemnly. “Tully and Lannister would be bound by blood.”

Her nostrils flared and she stared at him for a long moment. He did not flinch from her gaze. His face was so still it seemed it had been etched out of stone. But his eyes—his eyes were bright and hungry. A lion, ready to pounce.

“Your words are wind,” she hissed through her teeth. “You cannot promise anything from a cell.”

He regarded her ruefully. “You are clever, Lady Catelyn. It seems you know the ways of war as well. Your sister will be treated gently enough. No doubt she’ll marry a loyal bannerman when her traitor husband loses his head. And your brother…I must know. Is he in the castle? We were wondering before the assault. No one could quite remember what age he was. Tywin was assured me he was too young to be a squire, that he'd be hiding in Riverrun with Lord Tully's daughters...but I wasn't so sure. You should send him here to sit with me, since we both will die when the castle falls. It is noble you wish to die with us, but that won’t absolve you from all the death you’ll have caused. You don't have to die, though. Or your sister. One small life will save hundreds.”

She turned on her heel and stormed out quickly before her anger and fear got the better of her.

“I would consider my offer. I doubt my brother will be as kind,” Lannister said darkly as the door was shut on him.

She walked briskly out of the room, Ser Desmond at her side. She did not know where she was going, but Ser Desmond said nothing as she walked quickly away from Lannister’s room. She was too angry to say anything, and more to her shame, she did not trust her voice to not sound shrill and frightened. Talking to him had been a mistake.

"What a foul man," Catelyn finally said.

"He's but a shadow of his brother. We'll see worse before the war is done," Ser Desmond replied grimly.

The corridor was empty, the only light from candles in the crevices in the wall. Ser Desmond looked aged in the half-light. The candles threw his frown into stark relief.

"He has the way of it though, doesn't he?" She stopped and looked at him. "Storm or wait. Riverrun falls either way. We cannot outlast them."

Desmond gave the slightest of nods.

"My uncle still may come," she said, her voice full of false hope.

"My lady, even if he comes, 2,500 men will not be enough to lift the siege."

"My uncle knows this land better than any. He could put Lord Tywin to work."

"Even if he does come, we may not have the time. Methinks Lannister tells true. Lord Tywin will storm the castle again."

"Ser Tygett only said that to pressure me to wed him. You saw how he lied. He means to save his own hide. The only way he lives is if I surrender."

"Yes, my lady, but that does not change that Lord Tywin is a proud man, and you have humiliated him. He will take the castle by force, and this time he won't be impatient about it. He will make sure he has the strength to overwhelm us in one attack. Then he will strike, and he will strike without mercy."

She did not reply immediately. Then she asked quietly, "You...think I should surrender?" Her voice was small, like it was when she was a child.

"No," he shook his head. He looked tired. "But you should have a septon on hand, should the next battle grow ill."

"Marry him?" She said in disbelief. "He would kill Edmure. And my son."

"Edmure is a hundred leagues from here by now. Lord Tywin is no threat to him, not yet. I only mean...Lord Lannister does not like to be defied, and you drowned his attack in the river. Methinks he will not be kind, no matter how the castle falls."

"Lady Lannister," she said bitterly. "The notion makes me sick."

"As it makes me. But my lady...you spoke true the night we learnt your father's death. We are defeated, and traitors beside. And you, the daughter of our liege who carried on his defiance. You will need Ser Tygett to shield you from Lord Tywin, and Lord Tywin to shield you from the Mad King."

She was looking at him intently, her breath shaky, and nodded. "My father would never surrender the castle," she said despondently.

"Your father would do what he thought was best to protect House Tully and all the riverlands."

 _Is this what her father had done?_ She wondered.

"To think...” she began with a mournful smile. “Last year my father wished Lysa to marry Lord Tywin's son and bind them to our cause. If that had happened, perhaps my father would still be alive, and I would still be Lady Stark."

_And my son would have a father._

"Perhaps. We cannot know." He put a gentle hand on her shoulder.

Lord Tywin had ambitions then, but now his ambitions were changed. "My father would never surrender the castle," she repeated. Her father could not sell his hand in marriage to secure the castle. He would fight to the end. "I will not either, unless I must.”

Ser Desmond looked confused by her sudden change of heart.

“Our best hope is time. If we can delay the attack, my uncle may yet come. We know not what the future brings, good or ill."

She expected him to argue, but he looked more curious than skeptical when he asked, "And how would we delay the attack, my lady? Lord Tywin will not slow for his brother's life."

"No," she replied. "But marriage negotiations can take quite a long time."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey friends! After many chapters we are back to Catelyn's tale. As always, leave comments if you wish. We are now in peak Robert's Rebellion era story, i.e. adapting prominent characters who we know little about. Writing Cat or Doran or Oberyn or Renly or Stannis--well, I got a lot of reference material, and the fun part is speculating how their characters would react in different experiences (and much younger). But my boi Tyg has much less to work off of and way more open to interpretation. We know he liked to fight and was angry at being in Tywin's shadow. Not a lot to go off of. But at the same time, we got 3 Lannister kid POVs who all feel in Tywin's shadow...so patented Lannister snark fluctuating between arrogance and self loathing coming right up. But the really under appreciated character development is in yours truly, who actually got all the italics to work. 
> 
> In other news, I have posted some graphic type things on my tumblr for this story so if you want to check them out I'm asbraveasrobb. Hope you all have a wonderful week. Do something fun, learn something new, tell someone thank you, and most importantly don't listen to advice from random people on the internet. :)


	10. Doran

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Is it sheep you take us for, or fools? My brother is not a bloodthirsty man, but neither has he been asleep…"  
> Tyrion V, _A Storm of Swords_

Rhaegar sat regally in Harrenhal’s solar, wearing a small circlet of silver embedded with amethysts with a magnificent black doublet that wrapped him in stars like the heavens themselves had seen fit to clothe him. Up close, his face looked worn, with dark circles beneath his eyes. He looked less like a dragon and more like a bird starved for food and sunlight. Doran had a hard time imagining how Elia could love a man like this. His skin was thin as paper, his cheekbones cutting like daggers in his face and a purple vein at his temple shining the same shade as his eyes. Doran had once heard a woman say Prince Rhaegar was so beautiful that men and women could not gaze upon him without their breath being taken away. It seemed more likely to Doran that faithful subjects refrained from exhaling too strongly in his presence for fear they would blow him away like chaff. _Perhaps his wounds will still kill him_ , Doran thought dully. A shot of pain seized through his shoulder as a morbid reply, but he did not flinch. Rhaegar greeted them cordially, and sent his squire off for wine. Doran bowed before him, Oberyn beside him mimicking stiffly. 

“My brother, does your wound grieve you much? I must say I am surprised to see you before me after your fever last night.”

 _I’m certain you are surprised._ Doran may trust Oberyn with his life, but he didn’t trust him alone with Rhaegar, not after last night, perhaps not ever. He had lost consciousness long enough to miss Oberyn threatening to kill Myles Mooton for trading Elia’s head for Rhaegar’s crown. Perhaps Oberyn would have done it, until he saw Doran’s feverish body slumped beside him, or so Hotah told him once he regained awareness. Oberyn had shouted before the whole hall that he would kill any man who left the castle, or any man who sent a raven. If Rhaegar had not liked that, he did little to stop it. Before the moon had risen, over five hundred ravens had been killed. From his sickbed Doran ordered Dornish guards at the castle gates double the amount of Rhaegar’s men. Ser Kevan Lannister did not take kindly to that, and Oberyn took his persistence to leave even less kindly. Tywin Lannister would take that as a slight, and for once, Doran didn’t care. Kevan Lannister had a mere twenty men, and near a third of Rhaegar’s host was Dornish. And now Doran was awake, and he was angry.

“It grieves me enough, but not enough to forsake duty. I am Dorne, in my mother’s stead. We princes have little time for rest, I have come to find,” he replied as he sat down where Rhaegar indicated. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Oberyn take a seat beside him. _Restrain yourself,_ he mentally pleaded with Oberyn…and with himself. Elia’s fate was out of their hands now. _And in the hands of a madman,_ a part of him reminded. While Elia and her children live, there was hope. _We must strengthen our position,_ he had told Oberyn last night from his sickbed. _Elia’s fate is not certain, not yet,_ he had said. _Is it not? Is it not certain?_ Oberyn had raged. She will live. She must live. And she will be Queen. _And if she does not…we cannot abandon Aegon and Rhaenys._

“So it seems. Mine own maester has recommended I remain confined to my bed another week, and I did not succumb to fever so violently as you. I must say, your illness unsettled many. Some have even questioned your loyalty to me, which I most ardently denied,” Rhaegar said, his voice formal.

“House Martell does not take its marriage oaths lightly, good-brother. It was marriage that wed us to the Seven Kingdoms, after all. Any man who knows his histories knows the sons of Nymeria would never betray their Targaryen kin,” Doran said carefully. _But if Elia dies, you are nothing._

Rhaegar stared at him in return for a moment before deciding he was satisfied. He nodded at his squire to leave, then picked up a glass of wine. Ser Barristan remained, as if part of the wall itself. Doran and Oberyn followed Rhaegar’s lead. _If she dies, I will not hold Oberyn back,_ he vowed.

“To our Houses. Long may their friendship endure,” Rhaegar said. Doran noted that he waited to drink until they had. When they set down their glasses, he continued. “I admire you Dornishmen. None of your men dared bend a knee until their lord did first. Not even their lord, but their lord’s heir. I hope one day the Iron Throne can inspire such loyalty.”

 _Unlikely you will live to see it, you inbred get of a mad sister-fucker._ The purest thing about his blood was the water of the Rhoyne thanks to Mariah Martell and Dyanna Dayne. Doran smiled politely. He could see the whites of Oberyn’s knuckles as he set down his goblet.

“My hope as well. How great Westeros would be, united under a new Aegon.”

“But that hope is but a flickering dream whilst we quarrel amongst ourselves, and I do not wish to see that dream burn out just yet.”

“Do you have a quarrel with us, your grace?” Doran asked, trying to mask his anger. 

Rhaegar blinked. “Let us speak truths, my princes. Dorne is my greatest ally and yet has gained little from this conflict. I said before that I would grant justice and reward. I intend to keep my word, as kings should. Prince Oberyn, your might on the battlefield caused great glory to our cause. For your loyalty, I would make you Lord of Harrenhal.”

Silence fell. Harrenhal? The lordship was a prize, though poisoned. Too large to maintain, in truth. With funds from Sunspear, perhaps, but where was the gain in that? The lands around it were prosperous, and it was nearer to King’s Landing than Sunspear, should Elia need loyal men to come to her aid…

“Harrenhal? Your grace does me a great honor,” Oberyn replied, his voice dripping with mockery. Doran wondered if Rhaegar could hear it. “The pretty Whent girl is part of this generous gift, I assume?”

“Lady Eliza is a most suitable bride, and heir to Harrenhal. Though I assure you it would be yours in deed, not just title.” 

“I have little interest in marriage, your grace.”

Rhaegar’s eyes looked half annoyed, half perplexed. _He wants to separate us,_ Doran realized. He wants wild and unpredictable Oberyn left in Harrenhal, while Doran marches beside him with his mother’s army to secure Rhaegar’s throne against Aerys. If Elia dies…Oberyn would kill Rhaegar without hesitation. But what would Doran do? Even he wasn’t sure…A safer gamble than Oberyn, Rhaegar was right in that. “And your own title? Do you have little interest in that as well?”

“Certainly not. What man could deny ruling in his own name? I am not so mad. But I have little interest in a bride. Perhaps a few keeps you pry from a rebel Stormlord will do.”

“And if I grant you one of those keeps, who will keep your legacy without a bride? You shall have to wed.” He glanced at Doran, as if he was wondering if Doran would reign in his brother’s tongue or force him to be more tractable. Doran remained unmoved. He wondered privately if Rhaegar's face would turn as purple as his eyes if you held his neck long enough. 

Oberyn shrugged. “I have a few bastards. Or perhaps my niece Arianne. But bride or no, I will not take Harrenhal. It is cursed.”

“I did not take you for one to believe in curses, Prince Oberyn,” Rhaegar said, his purple eyes dark. 

“Ghosts or devils, I cannot say whether such a curse lingers here. But it is cursed for me. Why would I desire the seat where you laid my sister’s head on the chopping block, and where you swung the executioner’s blade? If you think granting me lands will cause me to forget such a slight, I suggest you pick a better castle.”

Rhaegar stared at Oberyn, a pained look in his eyes that surprised Doran. “That was not my intention,” he said seriously. “I never meant for this to happen. I know that does little to appease your anger…but all that remains now is the path before us. Elia’s only hope is for us to return to King’s Landing and save her from my father’s madness.”

The gall of his words made Doran want to choke, as if their grievances were mere hurt feelings. Oberyn arched like a cobra bound to strike.

“Tell me, Prince Rhaegar,” Doran asked, his voice cold fury, “Is Elia hostage for our behavior, or yours? _We_ have kept faith with the Iron Throne, but you, _you_ have sentenced her to her death.”

Rhaegar’s dark eyes widened then quickly narrowed. Perhaps he did not expect Doran to have an outburst of his own. He was quiet for a moment. _He does not fear me, just as Rhaenys did not fear Meria._ Rhaegar was a dragonlord, and like his forebears he did not suffer demands. _But I am Dorne. He will suffer me._

“So you will leave Elia to her fate, however uncertain?” He asked plainly.

Doran placed a hand on Oberyn’s arm quickly.

“Houses Grandison and Cafferen betrayed the Iron Throne after losing the battle of Summerhall. I think my brother would find those a sufficient exchange for Harrenhal. They are not as large, but together they may be suitable,” he said sharply. 

Rhaegar regarded him, his face unreadable before he nodded. “That seems a fair exchange. As for you, Prince Doran, I offer you the castle of Nightfell, and for the marcher lords Caron and Selmy to swear fealty to the Martells of Sunspear, as well as a seat on my council.”

Oberyn gave a small snort. Doran would not let Rhaegar get off so cheaply. If he felt any guilt for Elia at all…

“Mars Hole is without an heir as well, after the Battle of the Trident. And my mother would not be ungrateful if the lords of Dondarrion and Swann swore her fealty as well. Dorne has long chagrined at the suspension of the Knights of the Wells. All Dorne would rejoice for it to renew.”

Rhaegar paused for a moment, thinking. Doran removed his hand from his brother's forearm.

“Very well. Should you help me take King’s Landing peacefully, I will honor this agreement.”

“As for myself,” Doran said, “You would find I would serve most loyally as Hand of the King.”

Rhaegar tilted his head. 

“I intend to name Lord Tywin my hand, for I have seen firsthand how ably he has served my house in the past. He has always taken my side against my father. Would you find yourself content with Master of Coin?” Rhaegar replied. “I am certain your skills would prove most apt.”

“I will accept such an honor, if you also name my brother a seat on your council.”

Rhaegar glanced at Oberyn, whose eyes had not left Rhaegar's face since they had first sat down. When Rhaegar did not respond immediately, Doran continued. “I think Master of Ships would suit his skills. We both can testify to his skill in battle, can we not? Should Elia die at your father’s hands, our alliance would be much tested. My mother knows how to nurse a grudge, I hate to admit. I think all could benefit much from your brother Prince Viserys becoming her ward in Sunspear. He is at an age with mine own daughter and heir, Arianne, I believe. Elia has told me how few companions his own age he has had at court. Methinks he would prosper greatly in the sun and sand of Dorne. Perhaps he and my daughter will develop a healthy affection for each other, and strengthen the bonds of friendship between Martell and Targaryen.”

“You ask much, Prince Doran.” His voice was changed, and he had a queer look on his face as he looked at Doran, as if he was seeing him for the first time. Clearly Rhaegar did not like the suggestion of his brother being at the mercy of the Princess of Dorne, just as Doran did not like his sister being hostage in King’s Landing. Had a Prince of Iron Throne ever fostered away? He knew Rhaegar would refuse, but at the moment he didn’t care. If Rhaegar was going to shit on them like a dog, Doran was going to hold his face to it.

“But I asked first, your grace,” he replied coldly. “Viserys will be treated like a Prince, unlike my sister has. I give you my word.”

Rhaegar was smiling wryly. “I see where Elia gets her boldness from, my princes. And her quick tongue.” Doran wanted to punch him in the throat for saying her name, for talking about her like he cared about her. Instead he only blinked. He could feel the heat coming off Oberyn beside him. “But I will not send Viserys to Sunspear. Surely your wife and children will wish to come to court with you while you serve on the council?”

Mellario would not come to King’s Landing with a knife to her throat, he knew. She had enough of Dornish politics as it was, and compared to that King’s Landing was a pit of vipers. He did not wish to tell Rhaegar that he had scarce spoken to his wife without arguing for the past five years. Before long, the court would gossip that the man who had married for love lived so far from his lady. But that was another day’s problem.

“My wife hates the climate,” he replied in a suitably chilly voice. 

“And your daughter as well?” Rhaegar asked. Was that a jape? From any other man he might have thought so, but Rhaegar was not one for mocking wit. Rhaegar was many things men admired—gallant, strong, handsome, learned—but funny was not one of them. The only time Rhaegar had ever made him laugh had more to do with Oberyn’s incisive wit than anything. 

“I will send for her, in due time. When the fighting is done,” he said resignedly. _When Mellario finds out I mean to steal Arianne from her, she will leave me,_ he thought wearily. She had threatened before. _She will do it this time, I know it._ But what was the alternative? Mellario could remain in Dorne, unhappy, with Arianne. Quentyn would go foster with Lord Yronwood. And Doran would be alone. As miserable as the thought made him, he wondered if he would have the heart to take Mellario’s last child. He pushed his children out of his mind. They were safe and happy, their birthrights secure. Aegon and Rhaenys were his children now.

“To our agreement,” Rhaegar said, lifting his glass.

“To King Rhaegar and Queen Elia,” Doran replied crisply.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Roasting Rhaegar, a favorite Martell activity. The idea of "Knights of the Wells" is from racefortheironthrone's tumblr. Look it up if you are interested. As we know, Doran is a sentimental man, but he is also not one to waste a tragedy, just as in canon he wanted justice for Elia and her children while also wanting his daughter to be queen. Not mutually exclusive. And Oberyn and he work so well together, one reason being that Oberyn is a second son but also not particularly ambitious. Hotheaded and curious, but not ambitious. So I think it makes sense that Doran would be worrying and angry but also taking advantage of the situation and not making it worse (and getting his money's worth, so to speak). Like in canon, Elia dies and Oberyn tries immediately to raise Dorne for Viserys. It's not Jon Arryn who convinces him otherwise, it's Doran who doesn't say, "Don't do this," he says, "We're going to do this, but we are going to do it right, we are going to do it my way, we are going to be careful, and if we are going to oust a dynasty then I may as well have my kid be queen." So here I just had him do that in a different way. If Rhaegar was going to put Elia in danger, the only thing the brothers Martell can do is pray she is ok, hasten to her aid, and capitalize on Rhaegar's guilt to strengthen their position once they get to Elia's side.  
> Maybe I shouldn't be explaining what I wrote and just leave that to you guys. Happy Thursday!


	11. Catelyn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His father had never been unduly swayed by sentiment. Tywin Lannister's own father Lord Tytos had once imprisoned an unruly bannerman, Lord Tarbeck. The redoubtable Lady Tarbeck responded by capturing three Lannisters, including young Stafford, whose sister was betrothed to cousin Tywin. "Send back my lord and love, or these three shall answer for any harm that comes him," she had written to Casterly Rock. Young Tywin suggested his father oblige by sending back Lord Tarbeck in three pieces. 
> 
> _A Storm of Swords_ , Jaime VI

The next morning the drawbridge lowered and a rider rode out of Riverrun and declared that Lady Catelyn requested a parley the next day. That would buy them at least two days time, Catelyn thought as she broke her fast with Lysa. She had no intent on surrendering the castle yet, but even still…if her uncle did not return, she was at Lord Tywin’s mercy. She could not anger him in her negotiations. 

After she broke her fast, she went to the sept to pray. She prayed for her father, and Brandon, and Eddard. The sun was setting before she lifted her head. _Seven preserve me,_ she thought as she left the sept. That night, she lay in bed wide awake, wondering what would happen tomorrow. _Let me be brave,_ she prayed. _Father, would that you were here._ She finally fell asleep, a murmured prayer from her prayer book on her lips, her babe snuggled beside her.

That night, she dreamt she was on the walls of Riverrun. The sky was black, and the earth as well, and there was no river. Yet she could still hear it rushing in the distance quietly. _Hello?_ She called, but no one answered. The river was louder now, and she realized it was not the river calling to her, but a thousand voices, crying and wailing. Louder and louder it grew; she put her hands over her ears but she could still hear it. She ran to the edge of the battlements and looked over. Black came up to reach her, crawling up the side of the castle wall. A black mist, a great empty void. She grabbed the edge to keep from falling. Then she saw someone running towards her. _Lady Catelyn!_ Ser Denys said. _Run!_ She did as he commanded, but she was not fast enough. He began to attack her, and suddenly she had a sword and she stabbed him in the gut. Lady Catelyn, he said, falling to his knees. His face was changing, and suddenly her father was kneeling before her. _Cat…watch for me_ , he gurgled, blood running from his eyes and mouth.

She woke up panting, her maid hovering above her. 

“Milady?”

“Water,” she gasped. Elodie returned quickly with a cup of water. Catelyn drank it feverishly, trying to push the dream from her mind. She wiped her forehead, ignoring the hard bread and cheese Elodie had brought her. She was not fool enough to trust her stomach. As her maids brushed through her hair, Catelyn stared at her bedroom window in silence, going over everything she should say for the hundredth time. When she was done, she kissed her sleeping babe, and went to the battlements. 

The castle was almost peaceful as she ascended the steps to the battlements. Lannister’s army was sprawled out over the hillside as far as she could see, at least in this wedge of land. She breathed deep, bracing breaths as she watched the first slivers of sunlight creep across the horizon and bathe the red and gold flags in orange. 

“My lady,” came a voice, and she spun around. Ser Desmond was there, his lined face squinting in the face of the rising sun. Beside him was—

“Ser Robin!” Catelyn said brightly. His face was clean-shaven, and perhaps he looked a touch pale, but he smiled when she saw him. She had scarce seen him since he had been injured. She embraced him, and for a moment she thought of her father. “You are well? I have missed your council, ser. It scarce felt like Riverrun without you ordering the guards about.”

“I am well, my lady. You need not be concerned,” he said gruffly, looking both surprised and chuffed at her hug. “Besides, I could not let you ride out to parlay without me at your side. If your father knew he would skin my hide.”

“I shall be glad for your company, ser,” she replied with a sad smile. She turned her head back to the rising sun. Ser Desmond came and stood at her side, Ser Robin beside him. 

Not an hour later shouts were coming from below the castle, and Ser Desmond was returning them. He turned to her gravely and nodded, and he led her and Ser Robin to the gate where horses were waiting for them. She had a pit in her stomach, a terrible sense of foreboding as she patted her horse gently. She sucked in her cheeks nervously, then turned to Ser Desmond. He looked back at her, his honest brown eyes questioning. 

“Is this a mistake, Ser Desmond? I have a horrid sensation in my gut. Like something terrible is going to happen. That perhaps I have made a grievous mistake, or am about to,” she told him worriedly. 

“I don’t know whose mistake it was who started all this mess, but I’m certain it wasn’t yours, my lady,” he said plainly, scratching at his thick brown beard.  
“You think this is a wise course? To treat with Lord Tywin in bad faith?”

“It’s not bad faith, my lady. You intend your negotiations. It’s not bad faith to want them to take a bit of time,” he replied, his beard twitching as he smiled. 

She nodded. “You think this is the way, then?”

“I don’t know what is the right way, my lady. How I see it, we’re in a bit of a mess. But that’s what I thought a fortnight ago, as well. You saved us with the scorpion. That, I know. If you think this is the way, then I’m behind you,” he said simply. “I’m your man.”

Her heart swelled with hope as he held out his hand. She took it and helped herself up onto her horse. Ser Robin was already ahorse beside her, looking strong and fit in his armor, not at all like a man recovering from his injuries. She turned back to Ser Desmond and looked down at him from atop her mare. “Hold the castle till I return,” she joked, trying to calm her nerves. She did not have room for fear now. She had a duty to Riverrun, to her father.

“I will, Lady Catelyn,” he replied with an obedient nod. 

With a great creak the drawbridge began to open, and Catelyn looked straight ahead. With a clunk it landed, and Catelyn dug her heels into her horse’s sides and trotted out of the castle, Ser Robin at her side. The sun was low in the sky, so bright it almost seemed white. She couldn’t help but feel hopeful, even with the gnawing sensation in her stomach. _What was the worst that could happen?_ She asked herself. She misspoke, and made Lord Tywin angry enough to storm the castle and kill everyone inside. There wasn’t anything stopping him from doing that already. It could only help. She could only make things better. 

She could see Lord Tywin across the river atop a grand war stallion, surrounded by knights. Even from afar she could easily pick him out amongst all the men. He shone like the sun she had just watched rise. His armor was heavy steel plate enameled a deep crimson with what seemed like from afar to have intricate gold inlaid in the shape of a roaring lion. His greatcloak was a thick tent of cloth-of-gold so large it threatened to swallow him whole. She gripped tighter on her reins as he kicked his horse into a quick trot and came towards them, alone. 

“Easy,” she heard Ser Robin say to his horse as they began to slow. “Just in range.”

She refrained from glancing around to see how far they were from the battlements to confirm. She forced herself to look forward, at Lord Tywin coming towards her, at the knights along the shore, and at the hundreds of men sitting out of range, eager to watch the meeting even if they could not hear what was said. They were not far. She could make out some of the sigils on the breastplates of the knights Lord Tywin had left. One of them was so large he looked like a mountain atop a horse. Lord Tywin’s dog, her father had called him. _The mountain that rides._ Her eyes flicked back to Lord Tywin. He was close enough now that she could see a great lion perched atop his helm, roaring its defiance. This is where they would meet—where Tully archers could kill Lord Tywin, and Lannisters could kill her. She took a deep breath through her nose as he came to a halt before her. 

“Lord Tywin,” she said after a long moment. He had to be her father’s age, and like Lord Hoster he looked like he was not prone to rest. He was tall and strong and clearly had not succumbed to the indolent lifestyle many middle-aged lords did. “I am Catelyn Tully, daughter of Lord Hoster. This is Ser Robin Ryger, Captain of the Guard. Thank you for agreeing to treat with us.”

Tywin Lannister stared at her with cold green eyes and a face so stony she wondered if it had ever smiled. He looked calmly between the two. “I have no need to treat, save the terms of your surrender.”

 _Tread carefully, Catelyn Tully._ “I am sure, given time, we can come to an agreement, Lord Tywin. But I have terms, as I am sure you do as well, and if they are not met I am content to wait behind my father’s walls until spring.” She had spent her whole life waiting, on Brandon and Ned and her father, her father most of all. She was well practiced. She would wait as long as she had to for deliverance. But would Lord Tywin wait as well?

Lord Tywin’s eyes were green ice boring into her as she spoke, and when she was done he turned them to Ser Robin and back at her again. “You understand little of the ways of war. Perhaps your captain did not tell you that you cannot hold Riverrun against me. You cannot wait behind your walls till spring, because I could pluck you out before dawn.”

There was no trace of amusement. No mocking tone, no angry threat. His voice was low, clear as water, as if he was just stating a fact. It tore through her like a chill, but she refused to look away, she refused to even blink.

He turned to Ser Robin, as if dismissing her. “You have seen my numbers, ser. You cannot stop me from taking Riverrun. It is whether your terms meet mine, and that alone, that determine its fate.”

“I beg pardon, my lord. It is not I who organized the defense of Riverrun thus far.” Ser Robin said stoutly. “Lady Catelyn holds it in her father’s name.”

Lord Tywin turned back to her with eyes so full of disdain that Catelyn thought they would burn her, clothes and flesh and bone until nothing remained but ash. 

“I see,” he said crisply. And now she saw clearly too, clear as day, that her sins against House Lannister had been laid before its god and found unanswered for—the scorpion and the drowning men and the capture of Ser Tygett and her woman-ness too, her woman-ness most of all. He had wanted Riverrun, and he had wanted it quickly, and she had gone against his plan. Ser Robin would have just been defending the keep. But her—it was defiance.

“I will not forget it,” he said, like a lord who was begging pardons for the mistake might say. But Catelyn heard it true. She heard a promise. _A Lannister always pays his debts._

“I do not wish war with House Lannister. I only seek to defend my father’s lands. My father once wished that House Tully and House Lannister be bound by marriage. Perhaps that dream can be, though not in the manner he once thought.”

“Whose marriage are you proposing?” Lord Tywin asked bluntly.

“My own. To your brother, Ser Tygett, whom I hold within the castle,” she replied calmly. He wanted that, if Tygett Lannister had told true. She saw him bristle slightly at the reminder that she held his brother, as if it pricked his pride more than his worry. 

“Marry him if you wish. You have a septon in Riverrun, I presume, and as you said, he is in your custody, not mine.”

“A vow at swordpoint is no vow at all,” she said, speaking of herself this time, not Tygett. Lord Tywin could take the castle and make her marry anyone, but it wouldn’t be as undoable as it could be if she negotiated the match now and surrendered. He only blinked, but she knew he understood her meaning. 

“And in return for this match, what do you hope to gain from me?”

“The Lannister name, of course,” she replied. “These are my terms for the complete surrender of Riverrun. I need public declaration that myself and all my kin will be left unharmed. My sister is wed to Lord Arryn. When the fighting is done, I would see her returned to him. Should he perish, I would see her marry one of your loyal lords bannerman, or their heir. My brother can stay with me in Riverrun, and serve Ser Tygett until he comes of age. I expect a knighthood and a small keep near Riverrun that he can rule. My uncle—“

She paused. Her uncle would never abide Riverrun’s surrender. He would sooner take the black than serve Ser Tygett, but more like he would plot a rebellion. “—is not to be harmed. He should be allowed to serve the Lord of Riverrun, or leave the Riverlands, if he so wishes. The occupants at Riverrun shall be allowed to leave in peace if they wish, and your army will cease their pillage of these lands and return to the West. If you agree to these terms, and make our agreement public, I will return to the castle and inform Ser Tygett of your decision. The next time the gate opens, he shall greet you as Lord of Riverrun.”

Lord Tywin’s horse shook its head and sighed, but Tywin Lannister made no noise. 

“I have no need to negotiate these terms. Riverrun will fall to me, whether you wish it or no.”

She did not understand. He wanted the castle. She was giving it to him. His army could leave mostly intact. It was a fair deal. Why would he rather take it from her? Was punishing her for her defiance truly worth the lives of his brother and hundreds of his men?

“You may take the castle if you wish. You probably can, on your terms,” she said, harsher than she intended. “You do not lack for numbers. But I vow, each Tully man will kill a hundred Lannisters. And you can put the whole castle to the sword, but Riverrun is no Castamere. My uncle could take back Riverrun for House Tully with fifty men, and he leads way more than that.”

“And you wish to prevent this…loss of life,” he said. 

_I have no wish to die, no,_ she thought, but she refrained from saying it. Instead she said, “It seems like folly, my lord.”

“There are worse follies,” he retorted. She furrowed her eyebrows slightly in confusion as he tapped at his horse and rode back to the camp of red and gold. 

Catelyn turned to Ser Robin, still confused. She saw the same confusion on his face, though mixed visibly with mistrust. 

“Was that a threat?” she asked him. He made a face of disgust, his eyes narrow. 

“Seems like,” he muttered, pulling up his horse to spin it around. The path was narrow. Wide enough to ride several horses abreast, but turning more than one about was no easy feat. “I think—”

What Ser Robin thought she never found out. He gave a grunt of surprise as his horse ran into hers, screeching wildly. Her own mare cantered forward to get out of the way.

“Ser Robin!” she called, turning around in the saddle to see horse and rider crash to the ground. “Ser Robin!”

Her voice was higher this time. His horse was writhing queerly as if it had hurt its leg. It tried to stand and failed, neighing loudly and pitifully. She watched in horror as its front leg came down hard on the displaced Ser Robin with a loud crunch. He gave a loud cry of pain and attempted to pull himself out of harm’s way.

“Ser Robin!” she repeated, wheeling her horse around as fast as possible. She heard the men on the battlements yelling and she spared them a moment’s glance before returning to Ser Robin. She didn’t know how to get to him without the horse crushing her as well, so she stayed ahorse, trying to grab at the reins. She heard the sound of the gate opening.

“Lady Catelyn,” he gasped as she struggled to command his horse. Then she saw it: thick arrow, sunk deep in the horse’s hindquarters. Her heart puttered to a stop. She wheeled her head around and saw a small hill coming toward her. _No, not a hill—hills don’t move._ The makeshift wooden turtle was moving quickly. She turned back to the writhing horse barring her path. She dared not get to close or it was like to scare her own mare into the river. 

“Get back,” Ser Robin told her, but she did not know how. She did not understand, they were treating, it was a parlay—

“Treachery!” the men on the wall were yelling, loud enough to drown out the sound of the river. “TREACHERY!”

An arrow flew over her head and then another as men on the battlements began to fire flaming arrows at the turtle descending upon her. From his place on the ground Ser Robin grabbed his sword and drew it awkwardly. With all his might he thrust it into the belly of his horse. The beast’s shriek pierced Catelyn’s ears like an arrow. Blood fell onto Ser Robin like a waterfall as he withdrew the blade and stabbed it again and again until the beast fell slowly on his shattered leg. 

“Ser Robin!” she screamed, forcing her frightened mare forward to leap over the dead beast. “Ser—”

The sound died in her throat as a thick hand wrapped about her windpipe and lifted her from the saddle by her neck like Lysa used to carry her dolls. She gasped and clawed at the mailed fist about her neck, her nails scratching at metal until they bled, her feet flailing uselessly as she thrashed around like a trout in the bottom of a boat. She could not breathe, she could not hear—not the rushing river nor the shouting men nor the voice of the arm that rattled her so easily. She felt herself be raised up like a hunting prize for every man on the battlements to see. _If I stop struggling, perhaps he will think I have passed out,_ she told herself. She blinked rapidly as Riverrun before her began to turn to black nothingness. She looked frantically around, trying to see, trying not to be swallowed whole. She saw Ser Robin below, coughing up blood. _Ser Robin!_ She thought desperately. There was no noise. He opened his mouth to speak, but it was her father’s voice she heard. _Watch for me, little Cat,_ Ser Robin said, his mouth a black hole that stretched and grew as he swallowed the earth in darkness. _Watch for me,_ she heard again.

Then everything was black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So canon justifications for this, because Tywin is this behemoth in canon because he has built up his image so great and I think a lot of people forget that his downfall was the reveal of his hypocrisy—that the great Tywin Lannister was full of shit in the end, that his corpse stunk, that his legacy imploded because he did not create it in a way that was maintainable without his person. First order of business is my interpretation of Tywin breaking guest right and the established rules of warfare. Obviously Tywin has no problem doing this, or resorting to things that others would deem treachery, he gets into KL by lying and sacks the city, he orders the murders of the targ children, he orchestrates the red wedding. And these are not outliers—it’s his brutal retribution against the tarbecks and the Reynes that makes him famous; he established that he would not play by the rules of war _and_ that slights against him would be paid back brutally. So Tywin attacking under a peace banner is not out of character; hell, tyrion does it during the war of 5 kings when he sends fake envoys to bust Jaime out of prison. Clearly Tyrion learned this somewhere. So I’ve said why I think it’s in character for Tywin to attack under a peace banner, but the other half is why would he. Well, hopefully I made it clear that Tywin is not this pure Machiavellian antagonist who only ever makes decisions based on pragmatism. Many of his decisions in canon are not particularly pragmatic—they are steeped in anger and pride; think his treatment of his father’s mistress, his treatment of tysha, his vengeance against Elia (as Oberyn believes) and most notably, Tywin sending the mountain to raze the riverlands because Catelyn stole Tyrion. Not a political move that enhances Lannister power, it was extremely risky—Ned is hand and rules in KL, Robert is more likely to side with Ned than Cersei, Tywin freaking broke the King’s Peace when he could easily have just demanded that Tyrion be tried before Robert, make sure he gets off, and that would severely undermine the Stark power at court. He had the opportunity to play the martyr and disenfranchise the stark/tullys…but he doesn’t do that, that is not what is important to him, what is important is that NO MAN SHEDS LANNISTER BLOOD WITH IMPUNITY. So, not a particularly smart political move imo, but it is in line with the political image that Tywin is trying to maintain. But again, it is very personal and consequences be damned. So I am going the route that just as Catelyn seized Tyrion in canon and Tywin would want her punished for that, Catelyn here has Tygett and is attempting to use him against Tywin (recall Tywin’s attitude in the summary) and must be punished. 
> 
> As for Cat, I tried to focus on one of her major failings in her diplomacy in canon: she assumes everyone wants peace. She tends to offer her best deal first because she wants peace asap and assumes that everyone else does as well. We see this with her telling Robb to sweeten his terms because Cersei will never accept, and then her wanting to just wait to see what will become of the offer before fighting again. So here, we have her kind of doing the same thing—she is trying to buy time, but she still is offering her best deal first, and she did not listen to tygett when he said that his life was worth little compared to lannister pride. Which is another thing I saw in canon Catelyn; she has really strong intuition, but she often ignores it if it goes against her paradigm of the world and because Cat is not immune to the sexism of Westeros. Often she silences her opinions because she knows they will be silenced as “women’s worries,” but then she does not do so resentfully, often she is questioning if there is truth in that sexism, if she is “just a foolish frightened woman.” So here, Tygett told her that his life would not stop Tywin from attacking but Catelyn still has a hard time imagining that her valuable prisoner is worth absolutely nothing simply because _her_ brother is not nothing to her (im not saying tyg is nothing to tywin, you get my gist). She had a terrible feeling that something awful is going to happen, yet she persists anyways. Think of her resolutely riding hard to the Eyrie even after she starts to realize Tyrion might not be guilty after all, because like I said before, it goes against her established worldview and also she falls prey to the age old sunk cost fallacy, and that several men have died and she can’t let it be for nothing. Here, she just can’t accept that having pushed back the lannisters and captured Tyg meant nothing. She cannot just sit by as the whole castle dies, she must make their deaths have meaning. But as Tywin says, he does not need to negotiate with her. He came to punish her, humiliate her, not consider the lives of his men or brother. Because in the end, lannister pride was what would drive tywin. 
> 
> What great characters. Thanks grrm. And thanks to all of you!


	12. Catelyn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I want to weep, she thought. I want to be comforted. I'm so tired of being strong. I want to be foolish and frightened for once. Just for a small while, that's all . . . a day . . . an hour . . .  
>  _A Clash of Kings_ , Catelyn II

The cough shook her whole body in pain. Her throat was as raw as if someone had pored wildfire down it. Her head throbbed dully. When the cough subsided, she opened her eyes weakly and brought up her hands to inspect her neck. They stopped abruptly inches from her face. Confused, she pulled her hands toward her face again. She looked down and saw her hands and feet were chained together about a post. Her eyes travelled upward and she saw the post connected to the roof of a large tent, luxuriously sewn the size of a house. She swallowed and immediately regretted it—the pain shot through her neck like a sharp knife.

She looked about without moving her body. She wasn’t even sure she could move if she tried. She felt as though a horse had kicked her right in the chest. The tent was elaborately furnished, with oak chests and a large table to eat at directly in front of her. The events of the past few weeks came rushing back to her and she reached for her throat again, stupidly. _Ser Robin, what had happened to Ser Robin?_ She laid her head back down on the ground and closed her eyes. The pain of trying to think threatened to split her head in two. And Lord Tywin. He was a great lord. How could he stoop so low to attack her during a parlay? _We were meeting in good faith,_ she thought in disbelief. She didn’t understand. Was it blood for blood? She had taken Tygett, and so he took her. The realization burned in her stomach. _I’ll kill him,_ she thought. She swallowed angrily and almost cried in pain. _I’ll…I’ll…_ The burning rage in her stomach turned quickly from angry dragon to writhing snakes. The fear she felt abed in Riverrun seemed almost childish now. Her hands shook and her teeth tapped together. She was so angry she could hardly breathe. _He means to make me pay, for killing his men, for taking his brother. He means to humiliate me, as I have him._ A Lannister always pays his debts, she thought as she felt a hot, useless tear run down her face.

And here she was, bruised and chained, snatched in sight of all the people of Riverrun. It was a wonder she was chained here, on some fur rug in a grand pavilion, and not in a muddy cage in the middle of camp. Something tugged at the back of her brain, and dark thought…she lived and died on Tywin’s terms, and there were more ways to humiliate her than one...

Involuntarily, she gave a shaking sigh as she tried to draw breath. No, no. They are knights and lords. Highborn, like she. They would not, she told herself feebly. They would kill her or marry her claim, not defile her. _No more than they would break the laws of parlay?_ A voice asked her. 

“Hey—look! She’s awake!” A voice near her feet said. She quickly examined herself. Her clothes were still on, and intact. 

She laid her head back on the ground, exhausted, and scrunched up her eyes tight. _No matter what,_ she told herself. _I will live. They can do what they want to me but they will not own me. They will not break me. I will live. For my little babe. For Lysa and Edmure. I must live. I must live._

“I’ll get Ser Steffon,” another voice replied. She heard footsteps leave.

She had no idea who Ser Steffon was, and she was too weak and tired to care. She thought of her little boy, and Lysa, and Edmure. Her little Hoster. Lysa. Edmure. Hoster. Lysa. Edmure. She said it to herself, over and over. She could hear the constant murmur of life in the camp—men talking, horses whinnying, the sound of carts rolling and swords sharpening and ever so quietly, Catelyn could hear the sound of the Trident roaring its power. Hoster. Lysa. Edmure. 

She heard men talking, closer this time, and suddenly new voices filled the tent. The man who had remained inside greeted the newcomers. 

“You said she was awake. She doesn’t look awake,” the new voice said skeptically.

“I think she passed out again, ser. I saw her eyes open though, I swear it. They were blue,” the man said to prove his word. 

She had no strength or desire to reveal her awareness to them. The longer she was unconscious the safer she would be, she thought. And the weaker…sooner or later, she would need food and water. 

“How long will she sleep? It’s been more than a day. Is Lord Tywin impatient?” This was a new voice too, different than the first, slower. 

“He has not sent anyone to check on her. My father told me he gave us the honor of guarding her, seeing as she’s so highborn. My father didn’t say what Lord Tywin wants with her,” the first voice said, the one who seemed in charge. Catelyn carefully let her face remain still, thankful her hair had come out of its braid to cover her face. 

“Do you want to speak with her, ser? I could dunk her with water if you’d like,” this voice sounded older and gruffer, the same voice that was guarding her.

“Are you a fool? Lord Tywin entrusted my father to keep her, and my father entrusted me. I’m not having my contribution to the war be our most valuable prisoner dying from a chill under my guard,” the man snapped back. This one must be the knight called Ser Steffon. She did not recognize his voice. She did not know of any great knights from the West named Steffon, so he must have little renown. He would have to be great enough to be chosen as her gaoler. But it was his father who was chosen, not him, she reminded herself. She opened her eyes slightly, peering through her hair. The men were standing too close to her for her to make out anything but their legs without turning her head. 

A tent flap opened in her line of vision and man walked in from another part of the great tent. He was older, perhaps past his fifties, with a short beard that did not cover his weak chin. He was wearing a simple sleeping garment without ornamentation. Catelyn closed her eyes quickly. She felt more alert now, fear rousing her from exhaustion.

“Father,” came Ser Steffon’s voice. “I hope I did not wake you from your nap.”

Catelyn noted that he sounded genuinely concerned, not mocking. 

His father gave a grumpy huff. “I wish. That damn howling kept me up. He sounds like a butchered animal. Bloody coward he is, that’s what. An anointed knight, and he can’t even find the courage to put a blade in his own gut.”

It took every ounce of willpower for Catelyn not to move, to keep her face still. Little Hoster. Lysa. Edmure. She repeated to herself, trying not to hear their words, or imagine it in her mind’s eye. Trying not to hear the cries she hadn’t noticed till now. Hoster. Lysa. Edmure. Hoster. Lysa. Edmure. 

“Didn’t you see him, father? He’s pinned beneath his own dead horse. He butchered it himself.”

 _Ser Robin! No, no, no…_ she stifled the sob in her chest. It burnt like hot coals in her lungs. She twitched, trying not to let the tears fall. 

“Shame though. It was a nice beast,” said the slow voice that had entered with Ser Steffon.

“Well, if he won’t kill himself why do we have to suffer? I would give a knighthood to the man who put an arrow in his throat and let the rest of get some damn sleep.”

“Fat chance, Ser Harys. Nobody’s that desperate. Ser Addam tried to silence him, but his damn dead horse is like a shield. It’s so full of feathers it looks like a bloody hippogriff. He managed to hit him in the foot though, but that made him louder, not quieter. We thought the castle would wanna give him mercy, but the Mountain that Rides has less brains than that big head of his should. The turtle they used to get her blocks any arrows from the castle.”

I can hear words, but I do not have to listen. _My babe. Lysa. Edmure._ She could feel her lungs shaking in her chest. _My boy. Lysa. Edmure._ She was trying so hard to stay still, but she could feel it was for naught. Hoster, she had named him Hoster. It was if her very bones were trembling, but she could not let herself move. Hoster. Lysa. Edmure. The harder she tried to stay still, the harder it became. She was trying to hold water in her hands and it kept dribbling through her fingers. She saw Ser Robin, coughing up blood. _No, no. Hoster. My Hoster._ Remember how soft he is, his little nose, how fresh he smells. 

“You fool yourself, Brax. The Mountain is a mad dog. He left that turtle on purpose, mark my words. He wanted the man to suffer. Nothing for him but to wait to bleed out, unless the cold freezes his wounds. He’s a cruel man. Look at her neck,” Ser Steffon said, and to Catelyn’s horror she felt a hand brush away the hair that covered her face. It took all her strength not to jump in surprise. “It’s like he tried to tear off her head. Lord Tywin wanted her captured, not half-dead.”

“Lord Tywin wanted to put her in her place,” his father replied, the one the Brax man called Ser Harys. He added incredulously to his son, “And now she’s in our tent?”

“She laid in the wet dirt long enough, Father. It began to rain and she would have drowned in a puddle or caught a chill. I wasn’t going to let her die just because you were sleeping,” Ser Steffon said defensively. 

“Careful with your tone,” Ser Harys said irritably. “Lord Tywin entrusted her to my care.” 

“And he wants her alive. If he wanted her dead, she would be dead.”

She thought of Edmure chasing Lysa with his wooden sword all those years ago until her father had scooped him up. Her father. No, she told herself. Not him. Don’t think of him either. Just Edmure and Lysa. Edmure and Lysa. 

“She shouldn’t be in here. Lord Tywin warned me to keep a good guard on her. She has a low cunning reserved for women, he said. She might get ideas of escape if she’s in here.”

“I kept a good guard on her while you were sleeping, father. She’s not going anywhere unless we bid it. She’s chained up. Even if she was stronger, she wouldn’t be able to walk,” Ser Steffon reasoned. Catelyn pictured Lysa making a snowball in her hands, giggling.

“I want three guards on her at all times,” the father said after a moment when he realized his son was speaking sense but he wanted to remind everyone who was in command. The order sounded weak and pitiful to Catelyn. Then he added, “Women have no skill at war, so they resort to treachery. She’ll choke you with those chains while you sleep soon as she gets the chance. Mark my words, boy.”

Treachery? She thought, distracted from her memory of her little boy first opening his eyes. _She_ was not the one who stole Lord Tywin at a parlay. 

“A vile thing to say, father. Look at how fair she is,” he said, kneeling down to touch her cheek. Catelyn was prepared this time, and resisted recoiling at his touch. “Even with her neck all mangled. I have a hard time believing such a cruel thing about one so beautiful.”

“Beautiful women are the cruelest of all, Steffon. She freed the river. I heard Addam Marbrand telling some of his outriders. I thought we should just abandon the siege, but now…they have Ser Tygett and we have her.”

“I doubt they’ll trade a knight for a woman. Even the riverlords are not that stupid,” the Brax man said. 

“Are you deaf, ser? It was her work with the river, and hers with the defense, not some riverlord. Lord Tully should have known better than to leave the castle to a woman. A man would never submit to capture so easily. She held the castle once, but now we hold her. She’ll have to surrender now,” Ser Harys said confidently. Even Catelyn knew better. How could she surrender the castle if she wasn’t in it? And Ser Desmond wouldn’t trade Ser Tygett for her. Why would he trust anything Lord Tywin promised now? In truth, nothing had changed…Lord Tywin would take the castle, and Ser Tygett would die. And her…even she did not understand what was to be done with her, but she knew it had little to do with surrendering…How had this proud idiot been the one chosen to guard her? What had he ever done to deserve such an honor?

“What if she doesn’t surrender it?” Ser Steffon said concernedly. He was still kneeling beside her, his face turned up at his father. She could hear someone sit down at the great table, and then another. 

Ser Harys called for food and drink and then said, “Why wouldn’t she? She had called the parlay to surrender.” 

“Then why is she our prisoner, and the castle still standing?” Ser Steffon said suspiciously, standing up to join the food. Catelyn breathed a small sigh of relief. 

“Most like Lord Tywin will tell me on the morrow,” came the father’s voice. Catelyn could hear wounded pride without even seeing his face. “Lord Tywin is the greatest lord Casterly Rock has had for a hundred years. Before long he’ll have gifted us a piece of the Trident, for our good service.”

Catelyn could hear the clatter of food and drink as the men began to eat and drink. Some other men joined them, each commenting on her presence like she was some exotic new tapestry. Ser Harys made sure to tell every man who entered exactly how Lord Tywin himself had given him the honor of guarding such a highborn prisoner. While the men were busy drinking and eating and laughing, Catelyn chanced another peek. The table was far enough away she could see the men sitting, and more importantly, their sigils. She saw the purple unicorn of Brax and the red ox of Prestor, and a sigil she did not know that must belong to some insignificant knight. She could figure out which man was Ser Steffon immediately—he had the same chinless face of his father. He looked much younger than he sounded, with his face boyishly round, though Catelyn thought he may even be thirty. He wore yellow, with a large image of a cock upon his breast. House Swyft. She finally knew. Yet the victory felt empty. 

The hardest thing in the world was to lie still as if she were sleeping when all she wanted to do was scream, to tear out their eyes, too weep. Ser Robin, she thought biting her tongue so hard she could taste blood. Yet she lay perfectly still. 

After several hours of drunken chatter, the men began to slowly disperse back to their own tents. Only a few remained now, Ser Steffon and the Brax man and the man with the slur even before he drank and the young lad who lost both his daggers in a bet. _Please gods. Let them leave. Let me weep. Let me weep._

“Bet Lord Tywin’ll marry her to the imp,” the Brax man said lazily. “No one will marry him unless they’re forced to. 

“Seems like a bloody waste,” Ser Steffon said.

“Yes,” the other men agreed. “A bloody waste for true.”

After what seemed like a lifetime, the men left the tent and sat outside. She could still hear their muffled voices. She held her breath as the tent flap descended. Was it safe? Had they all left? She opened her eyes slightly, hoping against hope that she was alone. She turned her head slowly, sitting up. She gulped, trying to steady her breath when a great roar of laughter from just outside the tent jolted her in fear. She managed to lay back down just before someone entered. 

The stench of ale washed over her as heavy footsteps walked around inside. A woman said, “Who’s yer frien’?”

“No one,” Steffon replied. His voice was slurred. Then he gave a great booming laugh. 

“She your wife?” the woman said curiously.

“Think I keep my wife in chains?” Steffon asked, offended.

The girl was unperturbed. “Thou’ maybe it was your taste or som’thin’,” she laughed. “Or is it just when you bring ‘ome ‘ores?”

“I’m not paying you for your wit,” Steffon replied shortly. Then Catelyn heard some of the dishes clatter, followed by the sound of ripping clothes. Catelyn opened her eyes and immediately regretted it. She snapped them shut.

There was a pause, and then the man’s voice said, “Don’t worry. She won’t wake.”

“Not nothin’ to me if she wakes,” the woman giggled. “Pity though. She’s a miss out on all the fun, yea?”

She felt as though she were trapped in a nightmare, unable to scream, unable to wake. She shut her eyes, but she could not shut her ears. _Just go away inside,_ she told herself. _Away from everything, from all the death and fear and humiliation._ She thought of her babe, her sweet, sweet babe. Hoster, she had named him Hoster. After awhile, she realized her body had finally stopped shaking in fear. She felt numb, like the shell of a woman who had once been Catelyn Tully. 

Night had fallen and the moon had risen before they had finished their fun and the soft moans had been replaced with Ser Steffon’s loud snores. Only then did Catelyn give a great shaking sigh that turned into a dry sob before she could stop it. She shifted her chained hands and spit out the blood from her mouth. What was to become of her? All her protectors had been killed one by one, Brandon, then Ned and her father, Ser Denys and now even Ser Robin. _Ser Robin,_ she wept. She could still hear his cries on the wind. She saw him in her mind’s eye, cutting open his horse to save her, and failing. _Ser Robin…_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this hurt, not gonna lie…tone of the chapter definitely inspired by jaime’s chapters post hand-cut-off and Arya’s chapter when she is brought to harrenhal. And of course, Catelyn’s chapters in acok are full of mounting grief, and Cat just wanting to be alone. I was going for the pain of holding your breath because you are so frightened, holding, holding, holding, trying to be still, trying to be strong, and holding all it in just makes it all the more worse. “I want to weep…I want to be comforted…”
> 
> Constant struggle: trying to keep the worldbuilding and characters consistent to canon but also not wanting to write a cesspit of misogyny. Just a city girl, living in a patriarchal world (of Westeros). I guess the way that I will go about this is plenty of female POVs (either next chapter or one after…ELIA!) but soon enough we will get some Lyanna, Rhaella, Lysa, Mellario. As mentioned before, I will be saving some of the dead ladies in childbirth (i.e. Lyanna & Rhaella). Cersei will get a POV too, but that will be a bit. I just don’t see the use (though I may change my mind) writing a chapter with her in Casterly Rock removed from the war, main politics, and other characters. My goal, as ever, will be to put characters through struggles in a way that a) seem logical for the canon characterizations b) explore themes introduced in canon c) cause the character to grow. For example, canon Catelyn must watch as everything she says or does never amounts to saving her family, and in the end she cannot even die to reunite with them—they bring her back and take her voice, and Cat is left in death as she was in life…always watching. This chapter and the previous is an attempted homage to that; Catelyn here has been doing everything in her wits and makes some pretty amazing feats in her defense of Riverrun, yet the nagging feeling that it is all for naught because no matter how many times she repels house lannister, _there is no hope while Aerys sits the throne_. This chapter is Cat’s less harsh Red Wedding—the nagging feeling that nothing she does matters is thrown in her face. She is hurt and shackled; she physically cannot move or speak. As it’s hopefully clear thus far, I’m not here for shock value. There is some self-indulgence, but it’s more canon or fanon critique, like that the warfare should have far more sieges and not just “look the rohirrim are here in the knick of time!”, reducing the dead ladies club, and investigating the idea that just because Elia is Dornish does not inherently mean that House Martell would be just peachy with Rhaegar starting a war that ends up with Elia hostage forcing her family to fight. So, we shall see if I can accomplish my goal. To the like...20 people reading...thanks! it's cool even one person is interested in this. As ever, I post stuff about this on tumblr asbraveasrobb. 
> 
> If there ever was a man to deserve his arms, it is Ser Harys.


	13. Catelyn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Tullys drew their strength from the river, and it was to the river they returned when their lives had run their course.
> 
> Catelyn IV, _A Storm of Swords_

_Chirp. Chirp. Chirp._ The morning birds heralded the dawn in a quiet fanfare unnoticed by the sprawling camp. Catelyn blinked once. Streams of soft sunlight lit the threadbare rug. How long ago since the sun peeked over the horizon? She could see her breath cling to the earth like morning mist. Catelyn Tully listened to the chorus, and she listened alone. _Chirp. Chirp. Chirp._ The noise was so quiet that she wondered how long the birds had been at their tune, and if she had only just noticed. She had not slept, even if she wanted to. She wanted nothing more than to just shut her eyes and drift away. She did not care if she woke. She did not care at all. 

In the distance she heard a noise, a terrible noise. She shut her eyes quickly, yet when she did she saw his face weeping blood. She opened her eyes. Once she would have prayed to the gods to save him, to save her, to save Riverrun and her sweet babe. But they would die, every one of them. What monstrous gods would do that? And her babe, her little boy. She would never see him grow tall, she would never feel his embrace, she would never hear him call her “mother.” What sort of gods would punish her like that and still demand her worship? She had watched as Maester Vyman pulled him from her womb, and she would watch Lord Tywin hand him to the Stranger. That was all she was, eyes to see and ears to hear. That was all she had ever been. She had no hands to build or voice to speak. All she could do was watch. Watch Brandon leave, and watch her father and her husband, watch her brother. But they were lost to her now, and the hole they left felt like a hollow cave so deep and dark the light of day would never touch it. _Watch for me, little Cat,_ her father had whispered. And she had. She had done her duty. She had watched. And now she would watch her babe die.

And then she heard it again, a whisper of wind carrying a soft cry. 

_Please, gods. Let it end,_ she begged. 

_Chirp. Chirp. Chirp._ The sound tapped at her shoulder, trying to make her remember. A familiar sound, a sound from her childhood. The sound of spring, she realized. Spring had come at last, so why was she so cold? If she had any tears left, they would freeze upon her cheeks. The godswood of Riverrun would soon begin to thaw and bud, the snow would turn to mud then grass then fruit and flower. But she would never see it. Lannister men would see it, if Tywin Lannister did not raze Riverrun to the ground and litter the floor of the trident with the stones of its walls. _I will never see spring,_ she thought. _I may never even see dusk._

She heard the cry again, and this time it sounded like her little babe squalling at her absence. 

_Please. Please. If you cannot give me deliverance, give me mercy,_ she begged gods who had once been hers, the gods who had been her father’s. She listened closely, but if the gods spoke at all, it was in the dying breaths of Ser Robin carried upon the wind. 

Day turned to night without Catelyn moving. When the pang of hunger jabbed at her stomach, she could almost pretend it was her babe kicking, declaring his life. She felt her eyelids heavy. If she could not die, at least she could sleep. When she finally fell asleep, she dreamt of her babe suckling eagerly at her breast. When she woke, she could feel him lying beside her, but it was only the pole that lifted the tent. Hours meshed together as men entered and left. Catelyn paid no mind to them. It was as if she were a great bearskin rug, listening with deaf ears as its murderers walked upon its back. She yearned for sleep so that she could see her babe again. But when she slept again she remembered only darkness. And when she woke, she felt nothing.

The pain in her stomach threatened to consume her, yet she did not stir. _Better to die slowly than live to see my babe tossed into the Trident._ Lord Tywin had promised to take Riverrun on his own terms. But she would die on her own terms as well. It would be her last act of defiance. 

When she slept again, she saw the gates of Riverrun lower slowly, cutting through thick fog as they went. She was atop a horse thrice the size of any beast she had ever seen. The earth was quiet, the gate silent as it opened. The only sound was the rush of the river beneath the bridge, so loud she could not hear her own thoughts. She stared at the gate, paralyzed, dreading what she would find inside. The fog swirled into spirals like teeth so that the gate looked like the mouth of a great beast. Then the teeth spun into grey wraiths, but they were so far she could not see their faces. She kicked her horse into a trot.

When she reached the gate, both the teeth and wraiths were gone. Their presence had frightened her, but their absence terrified.

“Hello?” she called, riding into the empty courtyard. The ringing of hooves on the stone was muffled, the sound of the river loud in her head. But no one was there, neither ghost nor corpse.

She galloped up the stairs and through the castle, to her chambers and the kitchens and her father’s solar and the godswood. But all was still and empty, not a man or rat in sight. The beds were cold, the fireplaces full of dry ash. Yet everywhere, the sound of the river. She galloped back into the courtyard and up the steps to the battlements. Then she saw someone leaning over the wall to look at the river below. A boy with a shock of auburn hair. When he turned, he smiled that familiar smile. _Edmure._ A trembling smile crept onto her face. 

“I watched for you, I did,” he said as she ran towards him, her horse suddenly gone. She wanted to take him in her arms and kiss his brow and hold him so tight that he would never come to harm. When she reached him she embraced him fiercely, burying her face in his chest.

“I watched for you,” he said again, deeper, and she felt his lips upon her brow. When she pulled back and looked up at him, she saw a man, a man with curly auburn hair and eyes full of laughter, blue eyes, her eyes, eyes like the blue of the Trident.

“Mother,” he smiled. 

Then he was gone and Catelyn Tully was alone. She blinked her eyes slowly. Her hands were before her, clinking together in their iron shackles. She lifted her wrist and inspected it curiously. The roar of the Trident still filled her ears. _Am I still dreaming?_ She wondered. Her son, she thought. But her son was a babe, a babe who would never grow to be a man. Was that him? The son she had lost? 

Had the gods granted her a farewell?

 _My son. My first son. I love you. I love you. I love you._ She pictured his face, the little babe she left in Riverrun. But when she looked closely, she saw it was Edmure’s. And she could remember her father’s voice as if it were only yesterday: “You must be the Lady of Riverrun now.” 

“I will, my lord,” she had said as she watched her mother float ablaze down the river, Lysa clutching at her elbow, a wailing Edmure in her arms.

 _Edmure._ He was still alive, somewhere. He would live. And he needed her. She had been Lady of Riverrun…had she not been his mother too?

She could hear the soft voices of men nearby, muffled as if she were underwater. The water was all around her, filling her ears and throat and lungs. She felt the current swirling at her ankles, her toes sinking in the red mud. 

She scrunched her eyes shut. _I’m sorry,_ she told her child. She could see him so clearly, sleeping peacefully in her arms. A basket floated before her, woven tightly like a small boat. A great banner laid within, a banner of red and blue and silver. A Tully banner, like the one they had wrapped her mother in. _I’m sorry,_ she told her babe again as she swaddled him and placed him in the basket. She could feel the tears spring to her eyes. _I’m sorry. I cannot die with you. I cannot._ And then with a soft push, she bid her son goodbye. 

The current pulled the basket from her fingertips and to the heart of the river. It floated down the river, rocking as gently as she had rocked him in her arms. The strong arms of the river had taken her mother that way, and her grandfather, and his father, and his before him for a thousand years. One day it would take her too. But not today. 

“Hear that?” a voice said, and for the first time in days Catelyn listened to the words. She could still see her son so clearly...just there...

And she heard it. The shrieking sound that had terrorized her dreams, gone…and Ser Robin with it. 

“What?” another voice replied.

“It’s finally quiet,” Ser Steffon said softly.

But he was wrong. The night was loud, impossibly loud. The tinkering of soldiers and the laughter of Lannister men—no, those sounds were dwarfed by the roar of the Trident as it cut its way through the land. Catelyn Tully listened to the song of its rushes and heard a thousand voices, not the men she had drowned but the songs of her house. It was in the river they had been given life, and it was life she heard. She shut her eyes and focused on the night, the earsplitting night. Live, it told her. _Live._

She opened her eyes and sat up. 

A frightened squawk greeted her. “Seven hells!” 

Catelyn regarded the man closest to her curiously. He wore a plain tunic of dyed wool, his mousy hair cropped short. His eyes were small and gray and beady. She looked at him, unafraid. No one could hurt her now. She would live. The river had told her: she would live. Ser Steffon sat near him, his face blanched in the light of the brazier. 

“Scare easy, Steffon. She’s tied up, and a woman besides,” the man with the beady eyes mocked. Ser Steffon ignored him.

“My lady,” he said, standing hurriedly and rushing to her side. 

She looked around the tent, examining it fully. A cool night breeze swept beneath the walls of fabric and brushed across her face. Her eyes travelled across the sparse furniture reserved for highborn men in a camp that moved quickly. She could see a full suit of armor glitter in the light of the brazier like a dozen torches reflecting in a pool. 

“My lady,” Ser Steffon said again, kneeling beside her. She ignored him. She shifted awkwardly to better examine the room around her. Her head snapped back to her hands when the chains around them pulled her towards the pole of the tent.

“Are you well? My lady? Can you hear me?”

A warm hand touched her cheek gently and she gave a start of surprise and turned towards him, her eyes wide. 

“I won’t hurt you, my lady,” he said, his eyes round and honest. “On my honor as a knight. Ser Steffon, of House Swyft.”

He reached down and grabbed the thick blanket that had fallen when she sat up. He draped it around her shoulders. 

“Water,” she croaked. Or she would have, if her throat still worked. Instead a noise like a broken lute emitted from her mouth and she coughed violently.

“Drink,” Ser Steffon told his companion, holding out his hand. The man scoffed and after a long moment lazily filled a goblet and handed it to his friend kneeling on the ground.

Catelyn took the cup awkwardly with her chains and drank greedily. The wine burned hot on her throat, but it was a good burn, cleansing her with its warm flame. She would have preferred water, but she downed the cup thirstily in a few seconds. 

“You must be hungry, too. Been near a week sleeping. Thoren thought you would never wake,” he nodded at his friend. Then he called for a page, and servants to bring hot food and spiced wine. The page he sent to Lord Tywin though it was near midnight, bearing news she had awoken. Perhaps that should make her frightened, but it did not matter now. Lord Tywin could do what he wished with her. He could steal her, beat her, rape her, kill her, force her to watch Riverrun burn. It did not matter. None of it mattered. She would live. She had to live. The river had told her. Edmure needed her. He was not lost to her, not yet. 

Ser Steffon rose quickly and disappeared for a moment, then returned with a set of keys. He undid the chains around the post and then the ones about her hands. She winced slightly, seeing the red chaffing on her wrists. She waited for him to free the shackles about her ankles as well, but he left them on. She looked at him expectantly. 

“I can’t have you run off,” he said apologetically. She just stared at him and was surprised how quick her gaze caused him to shift guiltily. “It’s dark out, and the men in camp get raucous at night. Not all of them have a knight’s honor.”

 _And the knight who stole me, where was his honor?_ She wanted to say, but her throat did not have the strength for the words. She put a hand tenderly to it, feeling the painful bruise. _Ser Gregor’s gift,_ she thought. _And Lord Tywin’s._ It felt so raw she wondered if she would ever be able to speak again. 

“Are you too weak to stand?” Ser Steffon asked her as her fingers examined her neck carefully. She looked up at him again wordlessly. “Food will be here shortly. You must be weak with hunger. Come, sit at the table and drink. There is still some sweet wine left.”

He made to help her stand but she rose on her own. The light of the brazier vanished into darkness and she felt herself sway dangerously before Ser Steffon’s round, chinless face appeared before her. She blinked the tent back into view and made her way to the table, the chains about her feet clinking loudly. She sat down on the bench, careful not to move too quickly and make herself dizzy. She helped herself to a cup of water as Ser Steffon sat himself beside her. The man called Thoren watched her sleepily.

“You are the elder daughter, then? Lady Catelyn?” Ser Steffon asked.

She nodded and reached for another pitcher of water to fill her goblet. 

“King Aerys rip out your tongue?” the man called Thoren guffawed. 

She did not even stop drinking to brush back her disheveled hair and point at the bruises on her throat. Thoren scrunched his eyes to view them in the half-light of the brazier. 

“A necklace of onyx and amethyst, I see. The first of many gifts, I expect,” he grinned, his crooked teeth like fangs. Catelyn did not even spare him a glance. She turned instead to the servant entering the tent carrying a pot of steaming stew. Her stomach growled loudly, as if finally waking up.

“Guard your tongue, Prestor, or find another tent to drink in,” Ser Steffon spat as another servant entered and set a bowl of roasted leeks and onions and turnips on the trencher before her. Catelyn helped herself greedily to the food that kept appearing before her. The first bite tasted so delicious she almost cried. She hardly chewed at all as she shoveled a mountain into her mouth. She tore into a leg of lamb, the juices running down her chin. She smiled as it melted in her mouth. 

“You like it well, I see,” Ser Steffon said. She turned to him, tearing more flesh off the bone. In her hunger, she had almost forgotten that he was there. Every bite she took gave her strength, and she could feel her wits returning to her. It was if she had been frozen cold from her lungs to her head, and every sip of wine filled her with warmth and thawed her mind. She wondered how long she had been eating, yet she was no where near full. She saw that the man with the crooked smile had left. She wondered if Ser Steffon had thrown him out. 

“Here,” he pulled a plate of fried cheese and crisped apples before her. She took a portion and looked around the room. 

“My father’s,” Ser Steffon said, following her eyes. “Ser Harys Swyft, Knight of Cornfield. I am his son and heir.”

She had nothing to say to him even if she could speak. She could ask what was to become of her, but she knew that already. She did not need some knight unable to reconcile his chivalry with his master’s cruelty attempting to explain that when Lord Tywin’s siege engines were ready, she would watch her home be razed to the ground. _Don’t think about that. Edmure. Just Edmure. Your duty is to him now. He needs you._

“He has been charged to protect you by Lord Tywin, and I will do my own part to bring my father honor,” he told her solemnly. “You need not fear anything, so long as I am at your side.”

She stopped eating. It was not the rabble of Lannister smallfolk armed with pikes and scythes that would hurt her, it was Lord Tywin Lannister himself. She looked at him a long moment. If her eyes were suspicious or accusing, he certainly did not see it. He gave her a soft smile and placed a hand on her hand that had paused in midair holding the bones of a lamb shank, as if her silence spoke gushes of polite thankfulness.

While she ate, Ser Steffon kept her company, though she would hardly miss him if he were gone. If any a man had want of a mute wife, it was he. He did not seem at all bored by her lack of conversation, but rather enjoyed having such an attentive and polite audience. He spoke of the march from Casterly Rock and the sack of Pinkmaiden and all the men he had killed. _Lord Piper’s men. My father’s men. Good men, and true. How many more men would die before Lord Tywin had quenched his lust for land and blood?_ He told her how Rhaegar had slain Lord Baratheon on the Trident like a true dragonlord, and how Robert Baratheon was a fool for thinking he could defeat him. He spoke of his cousin drowning in the Trident—not from the scorpion, but from accidentally tipping on one of the boats when he tried to cross over to the other camp. _Boats?_ She wondered. How many boats? She wanted to ask, but how? _How long till Lord Tywin is ready for his attack?_

Perhaps he had taken her peaked interest as concern. “His death was little to me,” he assured her. “He was a fool to cross the river in full plate. His mother was always kind to me, though. I pity her loss.”

He smiled then, interrupting himself. “You have beautiful eyes, my lady. Has anyone ever told you so?”

 _Yes,_ she thought dully. Petyr had told her that, and her father, Ser Desmond and Ser Robin, Lady Evelyn and her mother, Elodie and Lord Bracken and her uncle Brynden, Lord Smallwood’s wife and even Brandon, when she had first met him all those years ago. If Ser Steffon wanted to play the gallant knight, she would not deny him. She shook her head. 

He smiled. “They are honest and kind. If the maid herself has eyes, they are as deep blue as yours.”

She smiled politely. _I am no maid. I am a woman wed and widowed, mother to the Lord of Winterfell, and the only mother the gods let the Lord of Riverrun keep._ He had unshackled her hands and given her plenty of food and drink to satisfy. If she played the gracious lady, perhaps she could gain a friend. Any loyalty from her gaoler was not a gift she should give up so easily, especially when he offered so willingly. _Better Ser Steffon be my gaoler than Ser Gregor._ The thought made her shudder. 

Ser Steffon stifled a yawn as she helped herself to another serving of lamb. As tired as he seemed, he made no stop to her feasting. He helped himself to another goblet of wine. His face was flushed, his eyes drooping. Wine had a way of making men sleepy just as easy as it made them foolish. For a moment she wondered if she would be able to sneak back into Riverrun if he fell asleep, but then he began to tell her about his father and his mother and his sisters. He spoke little of his younger sister. Catelyn surmised that she was too young to ever have been a playmate. He spoke much of his older sister, Dorna, with a mixture of admiration and resentment. Dorna Lannister, Catelyn soon realized, wife of Ser Kevan, and the sole reason Ser Harys was the one honored with guarding her. She had a hard time imagining Lord Tywin agreeing to such a match, but then she remembered what Ser Tygett had said about his father. It must have been Lord Tytos who had allowed such a match. Oddly, she found herself wondering what Ser Tygett thought of her capture. She imagined him lying cold and in chains, cursing that his brother chose Lannister pride over him ruling over Riverrun. Before she could stop herself, she thought of Lysa, wondering if she wept when they took her. The thought of Lysa was as painful as a mailed fist clenching her heart. But if Ser Tygett had the way of it, perhaps Catelyn would die and Lysa would be spared. They only needed one heir to Riverrun, and Lysa had not broken the river or imprisoned Ser Tygett. 

She rose abruptly, causing Ser Steffon to pause his ramblings in confusion. She made her way to the opening of the tent where a cool evening breeze fluttered. Even now, she could hear the Trident whispering to her. She moved slowly, the chains about her legs forbidding her from walking unencumbered. Ser Steffon was at her side in a second. 

“My lady? Where are you going?”

She could not speak, so she just kept walking. When she made to lift an entrance, Ser Steffon grabbed her wrist. She scrunched her nose in pain, the chaffing from the chains burning underneath his hand. _The sky. I just want to see the sky. Feel the wind. Hear the river._ She pointed upwards, trying to make him understand. 

“Oh,” his face softened briefly before a worried crease appeared on his forehead. She tried to poke her head out the tent and look up. She looked back at him pleadingly.

“Oh,” he repeated, letting go of her wrist. “Oh. You just want to…”

His voice trailed off as they stepped out into the night. Catelyn saw the remnants of a large campfire smoldering before a nearby tent. A few men were asleep beside it, another sitting cleaning out his teeth. With the help of a few thousand men and horses, whatever snow from before the siege had turned the earth into muddy ruts. She could still see it in hard packs kicked out of the way. A soft hush lay over the camp, like the quiet that came when fresh snow covered the earth. But the snow had melted in camp, and soon winter would be at an end. A breath of wind fluttered through her hair and she shut her eyes. The river was still there, quieter than before, a soft murmur of thanks. She had broken its chains as much as spring had. The Tullys draw their strength from the river, her father had told her as a girl. She opened her eyes and looked up at the sky, the shining stars twinkling merrily just as they had during the happy days of her girlhood. The stars had no concern for the wars of men. They belonged to the gods, just as the seasons did. She looked towards Riverrun. Fires burned along the battlements just as they did in the hearths within. The King’s Crown burned brightly right above the castle. _Please, gods,_ she pleaded, but the gods cared no more for the fate of Riverrun than the stars did. She prayed instead to her Uncle. _Please, Uncle Brynden. Save us. May your horses be swift, your course wise, and your shield arm strong._

She looked at Ser Steffon and saw that he was watching her, his eyes curious and eager. She had waited for her father. She could not wait for her uncle. She turned away from Ser Steffon resolutely. _Watch for me, uncle. I will find you._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just as Arya should have been afraid in the woods escaping Harrenhal, she wasn’t, because it was her place, a wild place of earth and wolves. We throwback to that here, with Catelyn finding strength in the Trident just as Arya finds strength in the wild, or bran finds strength in knowing that the kings of winter would always sit their thrones in the crypts of winterfell. The trident would always be there, before and after all. The trident has haunted cat since the drowning of lannisters, yet now she sees it as both death and life. I also just can’t pass up the imagery of cat being mute again, yet in this muteness deciding not to watch and wait, but find her uncle. Cat has a remarkable resilience and moving forward by focusing on duty. She does not think much of the manner of brandon’s death, and just decides, ok, im marrying ned now. In canon she struggles with losing her children one by one but she manages not to fall into total grief by shifting her duty—which is why her grief shows up in full when robb does not need her, when she is not sure where her duty lies, and why “if anything befell you I would go mad. You are all I have left,” happens. Here, she manages to pull herself from her grief both with drawing strength from her tully heritage and from focusing on a new duty: edmure. Hope. Yay.  
> Update has been a little later than usual because while(!december){takeExams}; Hope everyone is having a lovely holiday season. Good luck in all endeavors, whether school or work or just making it to the next day! All are worth celebrating.


	14. Elia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Help me, she prayed, send me a friend, a true knight to champion me . . .  
> Sansa II, _A Clash of Kings_

Elia waited patiently, stroking Rhaenys’s hair. It was soft and thick, lighter than her own, but just as full and curly. Rhaenys was shifting in her lap almost like she was singing a tune inside her head. Elia resisted reaching for the letters on her desk to read while she was waiting. When would Rhaegar return? Dragonstone had been a dreary place compared to the light and life of Sunspear, but she found herself wishing for nothing more than that Rhaegar would take her back there and away from this terrible place. 

“My father is unwell. I fear for his health if I were to take you from him. He means to hold you against me. Worry not, Elia. After I deal with my cousin Robert, I will return to you, and set things right,” Rhaegar had told her before he left. He would return. He would not abandon her to his father’s madness, she was sure of it. But he already had, a voice told her. _No,_ she told herself angrily. _That was not Rhaegar. It was the prophecy that poisoned his mind, and the northern girl must have seduced him with her promises._ The protest felt weak. It was her own fault, truly. There must be a third, he had told her when she was bedridden after Aegon’s birth. She had suggested his brother Prince Viserys. If Aegon the Conqueror had Rhaenys and Visenya, why couldn’t Aegon the VI have Rhaenys and Viserys? He had only replied, “Thank you, Elia, but you don’t understand.” And he said no more, and so she had not.

“Very?” Rhaenys finally asked, looking up at her mother.

“So close,” Elia told her, touching her nose with her own. Rhaenys giggled and tucked in her chin.

“It’s ‘U’. ‘V’ looks almost the same, but sharper, like an arrowhead,” Elia explained.

“I know ‘R’,” her little girl informed her as if Elia had not taught her everything she knew.

“I know you do,” she said with a smile. 

“It’s in my name. Rhaenys. Rrrrrrrrrrhaenys,” she said. Then she said as fast as she could, “Rhaenys, Rhaenys, Rhaenys, Rhaenys, Rhaenys.”

“It’s in my name too.”

Rhaenys thought for a moment. “Mama?” 

Elia couldn’t help but smile at the way she scrunched up her nose when she thought. “Mother? Moooooothhhhhhher.”

“That’s not my name, silly,” Elia said as she tapped her nose with her finger. 

“Yes, it is,” Rhaenys insisted, her lips pursed together playfully.

“Silly Princess. Is that your name? Princess?”

“No!” Rhaenys retorted, her chin held up. “Princess Rhaenys.”

“And mine is…?”

“Princess Mother,” Rhaenys replied, a proud, stubborn grin on her face. Elia laughed. The things Rhaenys came up with, truly. 

“You are a silly princess,” Elia said, tickling her until she shrieked with joy. She squirmed in her lap, her beautiful little red dress shifting as she did. “Are you ready to confess?”

“Mama!” Rhaenys giggled. Elia stopped her soft attack, and Rhaenys pushed back her loose curls, breathing hard, a mischievous smile on her face.

“So you want more?” Elia asked her, holding up her hand.

“No! No! No!” Rhaenys giggled loudly in a way that seemed to convey the exact opposite. But when Elia began to tickle her little leg, she yelled, “I know! I know!”

Elia paused, waiting.

“The servants call you, ‘Your Grace,’” Rhaenys said, waiting for her mother’s reaction. 

Elia favored her with a smile. “You are too clever for your own good, my little princess. And what does father call me?”

Rhaenys scrunched up her nose again to think. “I don’t remember,” she finally said. Elia was about to tease her again before she realized Rhaenys might actually be telling the truth. She wondered how much of Rhaegar she did remember…they had only seen him a few days in the past year, and Rhaenys was so young.

“Elia,” she said sadly, touching her daughter’s smooth cheek. 

“But…” Rhaenys stopped, thinking. “That doesn’t have an ‘R’ in it. Not like Rhaenys. You said your name had one, like mine.”

Elia pulled out a piece of paper and wrote her name in large letters. “Elia Martell,” she read aloud. She pointed to the ‘R’. “See?”

“Write mine!”

Elia did as she instructed. 

“Rhaenys Targaryen,” Rhaenys said when she was done. “Mine has one…two…three! Now write Father’s.”

Elia did as she bid, and then wrote another beneath it. “Can you read this name?”

Rhaenys stared at it for a long moment. “Aegon?”

Elia nodded with a small smile. Rhaenys was bouncing on her lap in excitement. She liked this game, it seemed. She had not yet learned more than her letters, but Elia could see that she had a sharp mind for it. Rhaegar would think she had his love of books, but the way Rhaenys smiled when she got it right made her think of Oberyn, not Rhaegar. But then again, she had not known Rhaegar as a child.

“Rhaenys Targaryen,” Rhaenys read as soon as Elia finished.

“No. Close. What letter is that?” 

“L,” Rhaenys answered. “Balerion?”

“No, guessing is not reading,” Elia pointed to the first letter. 

After a minute of spelling aloud, Rhaenys said, “Rhaella?”

“Rhae-el-la,” Elia corrected. 

Rhaenys made a skeptical face. “But it’s the same!” she said indignantly, pointing at the “Rhae” in her name. 

“Hm,” Elia said. She hadn’t noticed that before. “Very observant, sweet one.”

“But why?”

Elia had to confess that she did not know, a phrase that she never had thought she had uttered so easily until she had children. Rhaenys had questions about everything, and Elia much preferred to answer them than Rhaenys ask elsewhere. Not that she had many other places to ask. Since Rhaegar had left her in King’s Landing, she had taken great care to not let the children out of her sight too long. Aerys had sent away her maids, her guard, her entire household, and now, even Rhaella. Her good-mother was a kind woman who doted on Rhaenys and Aegon, and Elia had grown to enjoy her company. Their time together always had a sadness to it, but now Elia would have given anything to have her company again. But Rhaella was heavy with child and King Aerys refused to let anyone he deemed unnecessary near her during her confinement, lest they attempt to kill the royal babe. Elia desired to minimize her interactions with Aerys as much as possible, so she stayed out of sight in Maegor’s Holdfast, playing with her children and praying that Rhaegar would return and take her away.

Rhaenys slid off her lap to chase her cat down the steps to the nursery where Aegon slept. Elia reached out and grabbed a letter from the table and began to read. The scrawl was hastily written, with some of the ink smudged. She had read the letter so many times she almost had it memorized. 

_My dear Elia,_

_Doran’s wound in his shoulder still gives him pain, so I write on his behalf as well as mine. Worry not for your husband nor your brothers. Rhaegar has woken from his slumber and we ride to you as conquerors in King Aerys’s name. Whatever ails we have, hope of seeing your smile again is more cure than any draft Maester Caleotte could procure. Our swords are Rhaegar’s, but our hearts are yours. Do not despair, nor desert us in your heart. Prepare a hall for us to feast, and we shall make noise, and there shall be glad. We shall look for you, the sun of Dorne, my Elia. Shine bright. Winter is at an end, and we bring with us the promises of summer. We shall be together again. I swear it. We will be together, and summer will not end._

_Your faithful and undeserving brother,  
Oberyn_

Oberyn had written to her after the battle at the Trident as well, to tell her of Doran and Rhaegar, and he had written again when Doran had woken. Doran had written as well, a brief letter in his own hand instead of the maester’s. No doubt Caleotte was busy treating the injured, and Elia could tell by the letters that Doran’s wound made it hard to write. Yet Rhaegar had not written…but he was injured as well, worse than Doran, according to one of Oberyn’s letters. She wondered if Rhaegar had written the Stark girl, wherever she was. 

_How much has changed,_ she thought. When she and Rhaegar had first wed…she had thought she was the luckiest woman in the world. She knew who a person bedded mattered less than family, and by all the laws of gods and men Rhaegar was her family. Neither Oberyn’s dalliances nor Doran’s turbulent marriage had ever affected their love or loyalty to her, and her husband would be the same. Yet Rhaegar seemed unreal, like a prince of legend, strong and gentle, quiet yet kind. She had grown up around mistresses and bastards, but north of the red mountains customs were different. She expected whores or mistresses or bastards to be kept out of sight, but when she found Rhaegar had no heart for any of that, she found herself oddly struck with affection for him. Perhaps that had only made it worse when he had spurned her before the realm for the Stark girl. The memory made her grow hot, the same way she had burned with shame and rage when Rhaegar had spurred his horse past her. She had not wept then, nor when she had confronted him about it later. 

“Never again,” she had told him flatly when they were finally alone. “Have as many mistresses as you will, but never shame me like that again. We are one now. Your deeds are not your own, and you swore a vow to protect me. Now you have angered the Baratheons and the Starks. I don’t understand you, Rhaegar. I thought you meant to make friends at this tourney. One day they will be your lords. How can you not see the danger that puts us in?”

Not only the Baratheons and the Starks…but the Martells as well. Oberyn’s wrath had been terrible to behold, and Doran had not been there to restrain him. If not for her Uncle Lewyn…she did not like to think about what may have been. She had been forced to order Oberyn to return to Sunspear immediately, lest he get himself killed. Yet Rhaegar had not listened to her. And now she was all alone with her children and no husband to protect her. That hurt more than anything. Everyone had been stolen from her, first Ashara, then Rhaegar and Arthur, then all her ladies and guards, and then finally her uncle. She remembered the way he fell before the Iron Throne in her name, begging Aerys to let him take her and Queen Rhaella to Dragonstone. Aerys had not liked that at all. She was his, and her children were too, and her uncle was to remember as such. And Rhaegar…Rhaegar had not spoken a word in her defense. He had left Ser Gerold with the Stark girl along with Arthur and Oswell, yet he had let Aerys send her Uncle Lewyn away. Her anger at Rhaegar had been fresh then, and all the fresher at his acceptance of his father’s order. He had returned to her only at his father’s bidding to deal with the rebels, and only remained in the city briefly. They had hardly spoken. But when Aerys had given his order, she had marched to his chambers to demand a protector only to find her uncle already there.

“Elia. You have nothing to fear. These rebels will be undone shortly, and it would be foolish to send you to Dragonstone today only to call you back on the morrow,” her husband had told her. She remembered how little he had looked at her, his eyes and mind on the lists and maps he had laid out. 

“If she cannot be sent away, let me remain with her and your children. If they are hostage for my nephews’ obedience, they are for yours as well. Please, Prince Rhaegar, for your sake and mine,” her uncle had said. 

“My father will not hurt them,” Rhaegar had assured them. “He has no cause to. We shall destroy the rebels in his name, Prince Lewyn. I need you on the field of battle, where your skills are better use leading the spears of House Martell.”

“My brothers are capable in command,” Elia told him. “Oberyn led sellswords in Essos. He is not called the Red Viper for his quick tongue.”

Yet Rhaegar still refused. “I am well aware of your brother’s reputation, but the King’s white cloak should lead the King’s army.” 

“So you would leave me alone,” she had said angrily. 

“Never,” he had replied, taking her hand. “Ser Jaime will remain to guard you.”

She had snatched her hand away. “One Kingsguard? For your father and mother, your brother, your wife, and your children?”

“You are as safe as you can be, Elia,” Rhaegar had said, his voice soft and comforting. “You do not need more than one Kingsguard.”

It was her uncle who spoke then, his voice polite. “If six members of the royal family require only one of my brothers, pray tell me, your grace, how is it one woman requires three?”

“Not everywhere is as safe as the Red Keep,” Rhaegar said after a moment, his voice stiff. Then he had placed a hand on her uncle’s shoulder. “Your place is in command, ser. No harm will come to them. I swear it, by the old gods and the new. Leave before morning’s light. Together we shall make a quick end to this rebellion.”

 _No, don’t think of that,_ she told herself. The memory tore open a wound she had hoped to forget. She had forgiven Rhaegar everything: ignoring her on Dragonstone, crowning the stark girl, even running off…That had been hard to forgive, but it was not his fault, not truly. If she had only given him what he had wanted, would he have stayed? _There must be a third,_ she could hear him whisper.

She hadn't been expecting him to run off without note or warning, nor to leave her alone and unarmed in the hands of a madman. She worried less about if she forgave him and more if she would get the chance. _Please, gods. Just let him come back. Let him come back and take me away. I will forgive him. I swear it. Just let him return to me._

“Rhaegar…he fears your brothers,” her uncle had told her the dark morning of his departure. She could remember his face perfectly, the way he frowned as he spoke to her. “He knows they have no love of him, given Doran’s delay to arms. Neither does he forget Harrenhal.”

“Neither do they.”

“If Oberyn does something rash…Rhaegar knows you and the children will pay the price.” 

“Oberyn knows the ways of war. He will do whatever he must to keep me safe. Do not worry, uncle,” she assured him. 

“I know, child. But Rhaegar does not. He does not want them at the head of an army. He thinks only I can reason with them. He thinks that you will be safest if I take the command.”

She nodded soberly. 

“Elia…my dear Elia,” he had told her, touching her cheek. “Never was there a braver or better princess. Your mother…would be proud. And I. When I took the white cloak I gave up hope of wife or children, but…”

She remembered the way his voice had broken off abruptly, his white cloak fluttering gray in the darkness.

“You don’t have to say it, uncle,” she had taken his hand tenderly. “I know.”

“I see you as my own,” he finished. 

“I know, uncle,” she said, smiling sadly. “The gods took my father before I knew him, but I have not lived without.” 

He smiled at that. 

“How full of love and life you are, to give me such comfort when by rights I should be comforting you,” he had said, stroking her cheek. “You will make a fine queen, Elia. You have done…beautifully. Do not believe anyone who says otherwise.”

“I am not the one who rides to war, uncle. I can spare you some comfort. Please. Keep my brothers safe, and my husband. And do not neglect yourself.”

“Worry not, child. I shall return you soon, and not alone. I do not think your brothers will leave your side so easily once they are in the city, and I will sleep all the better for it. Your mother thought my white cloak would keep you safe...but your brothers in copper will keep you safer than I ever could in white.”

“I shall be fine, uncle. You need not leave so heavy with guilt. I know your heart. Look not to what might have been, but the road before you.”

“That road leads to you, always, Elia. My sweet child. My Queen of Summer,” he had kissed her brow, and suddenly it was her mother kissing her goodnight after she sang her to sleep as a child, it was Doran kissing her on the brow every time he visited the water gardens to tell her how big she was, it was Oberyn kissing her on her wedding day, assuring her that there never lived a woman more fit to be a queen.

Elia’s throat went tight at the memory, so she picked up the letter again quickly. 

_We will be together, and summer will not end._ Soon Rhaegar would return to her, and her brothers and uncle, and everything would be fine. Even Aerys could not frighten her, not with Rhaegar to protect her. Oberyn’s letter had lifted her spirits as she waited eagerly for their return, but something struck her as odd as she read the letter for the hundredth time. There was something queer about it…most like it was just the language. Grand Maester Pycelle received all the ravens, and Oberyn knew he must be careful to not write anything remotely incriminating, lest Aerys view it with paranoia. Yet there was something about it, something that seemed…off. Was Rhaegar more injured than Oberyn was letting on, and he did not want to worry her? 

DING. DING. DING. Elia raised her head. The bells! Rhaegar had returned! One of her maids called her name.

“Yes, yes, I hear. I hear the sound of my husband’s triumph,” she replied, her heart beginning to race. And the sound of her cell unlocking. She almost sung for joy as she called for Rhaenys. She would be expected in the throne room, and she should bring Rhaenys as well. Aerys was proud and prickly and would only receive his son from atop the great, sprawling throne, she knew. But Rhaegar was here, and none of that mattered anymore. 

She gave instructions to her maids and fixed Rhaenys’s hair while she reminded her how to behave. Rhaenys was wriggling with excitement. 

“Will father recognize me? I’m so tall now,” Rhaenys said as Elia knelt beside her to smooth her skirts. “Almost as tall as you.”

Elia laughed and kissed her. Then she stood up and held out a hand. “Come, my love.”

As they walked together slowly towards the throne room, Rhaenys did her best to act the princess. Elia could see her observing the world rapidly and trying so hard to not ask any questions. Maegor’s Holdfast felt abandoned as usual. Aerys’s court was sparse of late. Elia remembered a different time, when her mother was at court to wait on Queen Rhaella. She and Oberyn had come with her, but Elia was so young the memory seemed vague. Yet she still remembered the halls full of laughter and people and secrets. Now everything was still and silent, save the ringing of the bells that shook the stone. 

Two Targaryen guardsmen passed them hurriedly, hardly sparing a glance for her. The look on their faces was worried, not joyful. She felt Rhaenys turn her head as they walked to watch them go. Elia took a few more steps then stopped. 

“Mama?” Rhaenys said, looking up at her. 

Elia stood there, listening to the sounds of the bells and the shouts of the crowds. Something felt strange, and just like Oberyn’s letter had, she could not put her finger to it.

“Come,” she told Rhaenys, turning around and heading back to her chambers. She could feel the fear mounting, and she wondered briefly if it was warranted. 

“Where’s father?” Rhaenys asked, confused, trailing behind her. 

“Father will come to us,” she told her. She stooped quickly to pick her up. Once they were back to the chambers, she could bar the door, and wait for Rhaegar. That would alleviate her fears. Aerys would not want her in the throne room anyways. Her gut was yelling at her to get back to her room and stay out of sight, and Elia was not going to argue. Her gut had kept her alive thus far. 

When she reached her room, she heard voices, and saw the door was ajar. She slowed to a stop, wondering if she should go in, or run and find another room to hide in. Her stomach had clenched into a fist, screaming at her to turn around and walk away. But Aegon was in there…

She raised her chin and walked into her room. Two men were standing in the chambers berating one of her maids so vehemently that the woman looked close to tears. 

“Princess Elia,” she said with relief as soon as she entered. The two guards turned. One of them Elia recognized, the youngest son of the Hand of the King. He had been knighted for some insignificant task shortly after Rhaegar left. The other she did not know, a man with long hair the color of straw.

“Good sers,” she said, making herself smile gently. “What trouble has my maid caused?”

“Princess Elia,” said the man who was not Chelsted’s son. His voice was stiff. “The king sent us to fetch you. Prince Rhaegar has returned.”

She wondered briefly if he was lying. Neither of them were armed, which meant they had come from Aerys, that was true enough. _Few men have honor, but most believe they do,_ her mother had told her once. _Tempt them with the chance of honor, and they may seize it if it seems sweet enough_.

“Yes, I heard the bells,” she replied politely, hoping they served King Aerys out of duty and not passion. “I was headed to the throne room, but then I suddenly felt weak and feverish so I turned back to lay down in the cool of my chambers. I am certain in a few hours I shall feel more myself.”

“Prince Rhaegar marches through the city now, not in a few hours,” the Chelsted boy said tartly. 

Elia’s heart was beating faster as each moment passed, yet she forced herself to keep her voice light. “My husband shall understand. I have a delicate health; he knows this. He would want me to rest and recover,” she set Rhaenys down and put a weak hand to her stomach. 

The men glanced at each other questioningly. “Please, sers, I beg you. Please leave before I retch. I could not bear to dishonor myself before you so,” she walked over to her desk and sat gingerly in the chair, sighing as daintily as she could muster. She wondered if she could force herself to be sick to make them leave. 

“I’m sorry, my lady, but the king has sent us to bring you to him. We cannot refuse him, no matter how ill you find yourself,” the straw-haired man said. 

“I understand completely,” she said sympathetically. Her mind was racing frantically. She needed a weapon, anything. “I do not wish to disappoint King Aerys either. Might I just rest for a mere half an hour, then join my good-father? I fear I shall not be jolly company.”

If they could just leave, just for a moment, she could bar the door behind her. She held her breath as they looked at one another, arguing with their eyes. _Agree,_ she pleaded. _Just agree._ They were considering it. She could tell. _Agree. Leave._

The Chelsted boy opened his mouth to speak only for the words to die in his throat as another man walked into the room abruptly. Elia glanced quickly at her desk, her eyes scanning quickly over the letters, a few books, and the unlit oil lamp. The man who entered was a big man with a thick beard and small, cold eyes. 

“What is taking you fools so long?” he demanded angrily.

 _The best swordsman is he who sees the first strike while all blades are still sheathed,_ Oberyn had told her once. Her eyes spotted the dragonbone comb Rhaella had given her when she and Rhaegar were betrothed. _No, no, it was Arthur who had said that, not Oberyn._ He could not have been more than five-and-ten when he told Oberyn that, Oberyn only a rambunctious boy. Back when he was only Arthur, not the Sword of the Morning. She was no swordsman, but she could see it, the first strike, she could see…

The straw-haired man spoke, “She says she’s taken ill. She refuses to come with us.”

The man turned to her. His eyes were dead; there was nothing in them, nothing at all. Just looking at him made her blood freeze, and she knew if she left with him she would never return. It was coming. She could see. She could see. She forced herself to look at him. In the corner of her eye was the dragonbone comb. It was no Dawn, but then again she was no Sword of the Morning. 

“Refuses?” he asked. His voice had a cruel mockery to it. 

She swallowed and hoped her voice would not catch in her throat. _Any moment now._ “He misspeaks, ser. I would never refuse his grace, my father. But neither do I wish to present myself so wretchedly to him. Let me rest for but a half an hour, and change into something I can breathe easier in. I am certain my husband will understand why I have not hastened to see him as requested.”

The man smiled and took a step towards her. _Any moment now. Any moment._ Her bones shivered as she prepared herself. Please. Gods. Please. Her brain was frozen as she looked into the man’s face and his tight-lipped cruel smile that did not reach his eyes. His voice was dangerously soft. “It’s not Rhaegar who wants you. And it’s not a request.”

 _Now. Now. Now,_ the voice inside her was screaming. _Ser Arthur’s voice._

He reached for her arm, but just as he grasped it she grabbed the oil lamp and brought it down on his head. His grip loosened as the shards of glass sliced his skin. As quick as she could she reached for the comb. _Dawn. Dawn._ She could hear him swearing, her maid screaming, and Rhaenys crying for her. Just as her fingers grasped the comb great arms wrapped around her waist and lifted her up off the ground. She kicked violently. One foot made contact with—her desk! It slid against the floor with a terrible scratching noise. She scratched at the ham-like fists around her waist, trying to pry the fingers apart—

“Grab her legs,” a voice said, and the Chelsted boy obeyed. She kicked him so hard in the face he stumbled backwards, clutching his nose. She writhed in the man’s grip, trying to reach his face to drive the comb into his head. Once, then twice, then finally did she hit flesh. He snarled like a taunted bull but did not let go. _Again. Again._ She screamed as she drove the comb into his face as if he were an anvil. The hands around her waist loosened. She wriggled in his grasp, her feet desperately searching for the floor. For a moment the hands were gone, then suddenly they were on her shoulders and throwing her to the ground. Her head smacked the rug and stone and for a moment the world was black. _Get up,_ she told herself. As soon as she tried to rise a boot stomped on her wrist. With a scream and a crack, Dawn fell from her limp fingers. 

“You fucking bitch,” screamed the man with the beard as the Chelsted boy pulled her to her knees. He had a hand to his face but Elia could still see the damage. The comb had punctured his cheek so badly that she could see his teeth even with his mouth closed, covered with blood. “Fucking—get her up—”

The Chelsted boy tried to pull her to her feet. She tried to yank herself from his grasp, but soon the straw-haired man had wrapped his thick hands around her other arm. 

“Rhaegar will kill you for what you’ve done,” she panted. 

“Rhaegar is a traitor. Which makes you a traitor’s wife. Now, you can kick and scream all you wish, but the King wishes to see you. If you wish to act like a lady, we can walk there, but if you’d rather present yourself before him bruised and bloody, by all means keep struggling.”

_Traitor? What had Aerys thought he had done? And if Rhaegar was a traitor…_

“Thank you for the kind offer, ser,” she said tiredly, “but I think I’d prefer if you dragged me there by my hair.”

“So be it,” the maimed man spat.

The other two tried to lift her again, but she bit one and managed to kick the other. 

“Get her up!” he ordered again. This time when they lifted her up she managed to kick the leader in the chest as he tried to stop the bleeding on his face. The two men slammed her to her knees and suddenly the man wasn’t holding onto his face anymore. The force of his blow shook her whole body. She fell limp for a moment, her head pounding furiously. 

“That should do it,” the leader said, panting. They dragged her to her feet. Her hair was loose, spit and blood dripping from her mouth onto the floor. She watched it with a queer fascination.

“You kill her?” one of the men behind her said.

The leader lifted her limp head, and she remembered what was happening. She spit a great glob of blood into his face.

“This is taking to long, ser,” one of the men panted. “Her spirit is strong, even if her body is weak. We are like to kill her before she complies.”

It was quiet for a moment. She could hear her heavy breathing, and Rhaenys weeping, the bells tolling, and in the distance, the sound of a crowd. Still holding his face, the man stomped over to Elia’s maid. She was white with fear, yet she stood between him and Rhaenys. With a punch to the gut she fell, and he grabbed Rhaenys by the hair.

“Stop!” Elia gasped, but he did not listen. He ignored the maids useless fists as he wrenched Rhaenys from her grasp and dragged her over before Elia.

“STOP!”

He yanked on Rhaenys’s hair as she wailed. “You’ll go meekly?”

She did not answer fast enough. He smacked Rhaenys across the face with a loud thump. 

“Stop,” Elia panted. “Stop. I’ll…go.”

Rhaenys was sobbing and grabbing at the man’s arm.

“Rhaenys,” she wept. She could see a bruise forming on her perfect little cheek. She had never seen her look so scared. Her girl, her sweet little girl…

"You won’t resist?”

She nodded dazedly. “Yes…just…stop…”

He released Rhaenys violently. “All women are weak for their children. Get her up,” he said, his voice full of disdain. 

Two arms gripped beneath her armpits and pulled her up. She did not resist, but she neither did not aid. She slumped down weakly. 

“Get her up!” the man repeated. 

She refused to let her legs work properly. She let them hang like sacks of seed over a donkey’s back. They dragged her to her feet and lifted her up. She shut her eyes weakly as they half walked, half carried her out. She looked up and tried to turn her head. 

“Rhaenys,” she said weakly, blinking blood out of her eye.

“Will he be angry? She’s barely conscious,” a voice beside her head said.

“He wanted her. How were we supposed to know she’d fight like a tigress?”

They dragged her out of the room and down the hall. She listened to their steps, counting. _Thirty-two, thirty-three, thirty-four._ She opened her eyes and looked around as far as she could. As soon as they were well past her chambers she took a deep breath and yelled as loud as she could, “BAR THE DOOR!” 

A hand tried to cover her mouth, but too late. 

“It’s no matter,” a cold voice said dismissively. “The king wants her, he didn’t say anything about her children.”

“They are his grandchildren as well,” she said weakly. “The blood of the dragon.” _But the dragons were all dead._

Her mind raced as they walked. Her entire body was sore, and every movement made her face sting. As tired as she was, she was not nearly as tired as she was letting on. She tried to slow them down to think of a plan, but each idea seemed more ridiculous than the last. She could not fight them off nor outrun them. Even if she could, what use would it do if Rhaegar was outside the gates? From their course she gathered they were taking her up to the battlements of the Red Keep, where Aerys frequently burned men alive on pyres to light the night. Rhaegar had returned…what had happened to make King Aerys distrust Rhaegar after he opened the gates to him? Perhaps the smallfolk’s affection was too loud, how Aerys hated that…

She squinted as they dragged her up the steps to the battlements. The clamor of the army fell to a buzzing silence, and she looked up. The blue sky was above her, a vast expanse that swallowed her whole. _How deep was the blue?_ She wondered. _As deep as the sea Nymeria crossed?_ The sun blazed above her, warming her skin. The dragons were dead, but the sun of Nymeria still burnt brightly. She shut her eyes, and for a moment she could believe she was back in Sunspear. 

“C’mon,” a voice said gruffly.

Her eyes snapped open, and the red steps lay before her. She slowly lifted her foot and took a step, the grip on her arm so tight it was beginning to hurt. One step, then another, then another, and finally there were no more steps before her. A great roar came from the street. She looked up and there was Aerys, peering over the battlements at—

“Rhaegar,” she breathed. He was ahorse a black stallion in his black and ruby armor, a great host of lords and smallfolk behind him. Banners streamed above them—the great three-headed dragon of House Targaryen flew high, but she could others, the silver seahorse of Driftmark, the triple spiral of House Massey, the brown and black of House Darry and the huntsman of House Tarly—banners of knights and lords high and low, banners beyond count. Yet she saw them all, the crowned skull and falling star, the soaring vulture and the hooded hawk, the red flames and golden quill, and everywhere, everywhere, the red sun and golden spear. She blinked back tears. _Dorne._

“Father!” Rhaegar called. “Please, open the gates! I am your loyal son. I have brought you Robert Baratheon’s warhammer.”

Elia watched as two men in red and tenné trotted forward through the crowd to reach Rhaegar’s side, the host rippling like water as they tore through it. _Oberyn,_ she thought, _Doran._

“Liar! Liar! I’m not deaf, no I’m not. You’ve always wished to supplant me, and now you think you can! I will not so meekly step into the grave, no! Traitor! Traitor!” Aerys screamed, spittle dribbling into his beard. His hair was long and unkempt, his beard a scraggly mess that reached to his belt. 

“Father, please! I have done whatever you asked. I have squashed these rebels in your name! Please do not deny me so,” Rhaegar called, taking off his helmet. He held it under his arm, the red and orange plume trailing behind it. Two figures in white flanked him on either side. 

“You think you can trick me? Oh no, no, no, Prince Rhaegar,” Aerys said, his voice quivering. 

“I’ve heard more than you know. King Rhaegar, they call you. The last Dragon. Not while I live, no? No! You…can take the Red Keep with your army of traitors! You’ll get nothing but bones and ashes,” Aerys sang in a sing-song voice. “Not while I hold your little family. Bring the Dornish girl where my son can see her, closer, closer—”

A rough shove pushed Elia forward. She turned around absurdly, looking for aid. The battlements were mostly empty. Half a dozen unarmed men-at-arms stood behind her, as well as Rossart, the Hand of the King, and young Jaime Lannister, looking nearly as pale as his white cloak. She wondered if she looked as frightened as he.

“Please, your grace, I beg you, Prince Rhaegar has always served you faithfully,” Ser Jaime pleaded with the King. Aerys only ignored him.  
A rough hand forced Elia to the edge of the battlements. 

“Elia!” she heard Oberyn shout. “ELIA!”

“You won’t do anything, you can’t betray me! Not while I hold your wife!” he cackled as a swell of outrage came from the throng. Elia’s heart beat quickly as she looked down at great host. Cries of anger, confusion, and disbelief rose up to meet her.

“It’s her! It’s the Dornish princess!” 

The wind whipped through her hair, threatening to toss her effortlessly to the street below. Elia locked her jaw, refusing to be cowed. No matter how the dragon roars, the sun cannot bow. Suddenly nails bit into her arm, and Aerys yanked her close. The smell of him caused her to gag. 

“Look how fair,” he told Rhaegar, caressing her bloody scalp. “Look how…fragile.”

Shaking, she tried to pull herself from his grip, but he only gripped tighter. She could feel his nails break through her skin. 

“Father, please,” Rhaegar begged, spurring his horse forward. “Let her go.” 

“The so called king, and look how he protects his so called queen,” Aerys mocked, throwing her down beside him. She gasped in pain as her shoulder hit the stone. 

“ELIA! ELIA!” 

She blinked her eyes dazedly and looked up.

“You would prove your loyalty? Turn around, and leave! Never return!”

“Rhaegar! Stop this madness!” she heard Oberyn shout. 

She lay at Aerys’s feet, forgotten. She put a hand absentmindedly to her lips, and when she pulled it back it was covered in red. She looked up at Aerys slowly. If she could rise fast enough, one shove and he would topple right over into her husband’s lap. She carefully turned over, ready to spring up…

“Father, please, do not send me from your sight! You would play into the hands of our enemies by turning against me. I am your son,” Rhaegar called, his beautiful voice breaking.

“Get up,” a voice commanded gruffly. A rough arm pulled her up to her feet, and the moment was gone.

“My son...” Aerys grumbled. “You’ve…been…conspiring against me. All this time. You care so little for your queen, do you? What about your children? Do you care for them?”

“Father, please, they are your heirs—”

“YOUR heirs! Viserys is my heir. You are no son of mine, traitor’s blood! Get the traitor’s children! Bring them to me!”

Shouts came from the street below. Elia turned around wildly. 

“Please, your grace—no stop—” Elia commanded the men who turned to run down the steps. “Please, your grace, they are your blood—”

“They are traitor’s blood and Dornish, beside. All Dornishmen are false!” he spat at her. “Ser Lewyn has betrayed me!” he screamed down at the host. “He has crowned my son king so that his niece can be queen. Bind her there!” he pointed to one of the wooden stakes that had become a morbid decoration of late. 

Elia’s muscles tensed. She couldn’t move; she couldn’t think. The hands on her arms pulled her forward. She tried to tear her arms from him but he was too strong. She lifted her leg and swung as hard as she could to kick him in the crotch, but she missed and hit his thigh instead. 

“ELIA! ELIA! ELIA!” 

She could hear Doran’s voice too, now, loud and desperate. A great cacophony joined her brothers, sweeping up from the city road like a gust of wind. She kicked the man in the shin as hard as she could, again and again, but he did not let go. He dragged her to the pyre. 

“Please, your grace, she has done no wrong!” she heard Ser Jaime say ardently. “Please, I beg you, do not harm her!”

Her hair was in her face and she looked around frantically for something to bite. The only thing she could reach were the tips of the fingers clutching her right arm. She leaned forward and snapped her jaws shut as hard as she could. The man screamed and loosened his grip but she did not let go, she just bit harder. After a moment she opened her mouth and wriggled free, only to have two thick arms wrap around her chest like a violent lover. And all the while she heard her name, tearing the sky in two.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Starts so nice, then falls to shiiiiiiit. Hope you guys can bear with me…the fates of all our POVs right now are pretty tenuous…  
> Fucking Aerys was crazy racist enough to blame a dead Lewyn, so he’s certainly crazy racist enough to blame a living one. The role of House Martell in Robert’s Rebellion is not mentioned greatly in the books, for example, no where is it mentioned what Doran and Oberyn did during the fighting—were they even on the Trident? So here, I tried to fill in the gaps with some options that make sense (and I find interesting, haha). From canon we know that Doran waited to send troops because of Rhaegar’s treatment of Elia and we know the Aerys sent Lewyn to take command and kept Elia as hostage. Yet we know in canon it is Lewyn who leads the Dornishmen. I gave my own explanation for that, Lewyn is senior, and Rhaegar would much prefer Lewyn (whose loyalty he does not doubt) leading an army rather than Elia’s angry brothers. So just as Aerys keeps Jaime close as both sword and shield against Tywin, Rhaegar keeps Lewyn close as shield against Oberyn, which is a fun dynamic. Yet, if you recall from past chapters, while Doran & Rhaegar were asleep, Lewyn and Oberyn worked together for Dornish interests, and Lewyn did no power plays to remind the Dornish troops they were under his (and by extension, Aerys’s) command, but let the power slip quietly from Martell in white to Martell in tenne and red. Hm. hm. hm.  
> This chapter introduces the many relationships in Elia's life, the most obvious one is Rhaegar, which as we see there are a lot of feelings, many unresolved. Elia and Lewyn are pretty sparse in canon, but I think it’s likely he joined the Kingsguard the same time Elia was betrothed to protect her based on WOIAF. Regardless, they are kin and in an increasingly dangerous King’s Landing together. There is no mention of her father in canon (I made him a Manwoody if you recall based on Oberyn’s entourage in ASOS) although Oberyn mentions his mother’s consort, which seems a really weird way to say father, so I am just going with that at some point she remarried. So, thus, Lewyn has been the only father she has known. Besides her family, I mentioned both Ashara and Arthur. I mean, is it even a Robert’s Rebellion fanfiction without them? lol. We shall see Arthur before long, and you shall get my own spin on him, and his relationships with Rhaegar, Lyanna, and Elia.


	15. Doran

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prince Rhaegar burned with a cold light, now white, now red, now dark. "I left my wife and children in your hands."  
> "I never thought he'd hurt them."  
>  _A Storm of Swords,_ Jaime VI

“ELIA!” he bellowed. He could see her hair flying all around her face as she was lifted into the air, kicking and screaming. His voice was not alone. The once joyous welcome song had turned to a gale of angry shouts.

“ELIA!” he cried again as she thrashed at the man holding her, trying to rake him with her nails. Her claws scratched uselessly against his metal armor. He had to stop them—batter the gate, tear down the walls if he had to. For a moment he thought of the siege ladders—far outside the city in the baggage train.

Aerys laughed madly at their helplessness. Doran searched around, but there was nothing, there was a whole army, but there was nothing, no way to reach her. He looked up, trying to see, but suddenly everything blurred. He blinked rapidly. There she was, his sister, his baby sister. “Elia,” he cried, helpless. He could see her, yet she was just out of reach. His helplessness and fear burst into anger. “Have none of you any honor?”

“Let her go! ELIA! ELIA!” Oberyn screamed beside him. Oberyn turned to Rhaegar furiously. “She dies, I kill you!” he roared, pointing to Rhaegar’s chest with his sword.

Rhaegar did not move. His face was turned upwards, full of blank confusion, as if he could not truly understand what was happening. He was no longer begging. He just watched, transfixed. “My children…” he said, his voice confused.

“Your grace, what is your command?” Doran heard Barristan ask, yelling to be heard.

“My…children…he…he would not…”

“He will kill them all!” his Uncle Lewyn snarled, ripping off his helm. He urged his horse forward. “YOUR GRACE! TAKE ME! TAKE ME IN HER STEAD!”

The air was full of protests. Doran looked up, hoping against hope, but if Aerys could hear Lewyn he paid him no mind. Aerys put a mocking hand to his ear, as if he couldn’t quite hear the army’s cries. They had to get to her. They had to. Doran looked around frantically, looking for anything, anything.

Oberyn pulled a bow from his saddlebag and drew an arrow quickly. He let it fly and Doran watched as it smashed against the stone battlements, two feet from Aerys’s leg. Aerys twitched in fright, his lopsided crown falling off his head. “Traitors! Kill her! KILL HER!”

Tears streamed freely down Oberyn’s face. He released another arrow, but it flew over the battlements as Aerys crouched back in fear. He notched another and stared fiercely at the spot where Aerys had just been.

“Rhaegar,” Oberyn said, not changing his gaze. Rhaegar was still staring at battlements, deaf to the cacophony around him.

“Rhaegar!” Doran repeated, glancing from Oberyn’s notched arrow to the battlements. Oberyn’s shaky breaths had been transformed into a clenched jaw and deep breaths through a snarling nose. His cheeks shone with tears, but his hands were steady. He would not miss. Finally, Rhaegar turned his gaze, his mouth open and unsure. “Say you will leave if he spares them. Make him speak! Rhaegar! Rhae—”

“Rhaegar!” came an otherworldly shriek and the world stopped. It could not be Elia’s voice, it was too high, too frightened. The noise that had enveloped him disappeared, all the shouts but a soft buzzing in his right ear. The only noise was Elia’s screams and the pounding of his heart, thumping hard against his broken ribs. Doran could see her, his baby sister, bound to the pyre, what part of her face not hidden by blood was white with fear. And her eyes…her eyes…and then Rossart was before her, a jar in his hands.

“STOP!” he ordered stupidly, his voice joined by others beside him, and one up above. Doran saw the figure in white on the battlements draw his sword. Doran’s breath caught in his throat as he saw Rossart drop the jar of wildfire.

“ELIA!” he screamed, his face contorting as green flames began to lick at his sister’s feet.

“ELIA! ELIA! ELIA!” Oberyn bellowed beside him in unison.

“ELIA!” he heard Lewyn’s cry join with their futile symphony. Then it changed. “Jaime! JAIME!”

Then a hundred voices, a thousand, but the sound of the host was dwarfed by a high scream that shattered his bones and pulled his entrails out through his mouth. “Rhaegar! OBERYN! OBERYN!”

Doran froze. Elia was writhing, struggling, screaming. Oberyn sobbed as he spurred his horse forward, unable to do anything.

Doran watched wordlessly as the white figure grabbed Aerys by the hair. “Get her down!” he cried at the men. “Open the gate! OPEN THE GATE!”

Doran’s hands were shaking as he scanned the battlements, trying to comprehend what was happening. For a moment, the air was still and thick, the only sound his brother’s name. Oberyn was a lone figure before the mob. He danced his horse around, discarding his bow and drawing his sword. 

“Sons of Dorne! To me! To me!” He cried, raising his sword.

Slowly, the gates began to open. Doran turned around. “Maester! Where’s a maester? GET ME A MAESTER!” he yelled into the crowd. Maegor. He must get to Maegor's Holdfast. The crowd was alight with orders. He could hear Rhaegar's voice beside him but the words were too soft to hear and too slow to wait for. Doran craned his neck around. “Dagos, Myles—”

A metal fist grabbed his shoulder roughly and he jerked his head back to see Rhaegar's helmed face before him. The visor was black as night, hiding Rhaegar just as the cloak of night would--everything but his eyes. His eyes were unmasked completely, and Doran could see the confusion and the resolve and...something else. The fear. The pleading. Rhaegar had not even begun to speak before Doran cut him off. "Deal with your father. Leave your children to me." Then he dug his heels into his horse and galloped as fast as he could towards the opening gate, Oberyn near two horse ahead of him. 

“ELIA!” Oberyn roared as they hurled through the gates.

They cantered into the courtyard, cutting down four men-at-arms as they went. He glanced around. Eight. He raced as fast as he could, leaping up steps and around the halls, riding down anyone resisting them without a second glance. Their company galloped across the drawbridge of Maegor’s Holdfast.

He could hear a woman screaming nearby, growing louder as they climbed. When they reached the top of the steps he saw three men hacking with axes at a wooden door. They turned when they heard the hooves on stone, but it was to no avail. His horse met one man straight in the chest, while his sword met another. Within a moment, the three men lay dead beneath their hooves.

“Where are the children?” he yelled at the corpses.

The door they were hacking at was in ruins, as was the desk that had been pushed before it. He climbed off his horse quickly and made his way through the rubble. There was a maid whimpering in the corner, pressing herself into the stone as if hoping to not be seen. A flash of sun flickered in his eye and he turned quickly.

With a loud slash the sword tore through his outer garment, barely grazing his armor and lodged itself for a moment in a remnant of the desk. The man wielding it loosened it quickly, but not before Hotah hacked his arm in two. The man collapsed, but Hotah picked him up quickly by his collar.

“Where are the children? What have you done with them?” Doran asked him furiously.

The man only sobbed, cradling his stump.

Doran looked around the chambers. The maid was still petrified in the corner, whatever on the desk unceremoniously laying about the room. There was a wardrobe and several tapestries. He recognized Elia’s high harp and the mahogany table he had gifted her last nameday.

“Find them!” he ordered. “Where are the children? Where are the prince and princess?” he asked the maid, his voice rising. She shook her head, her eyes wide with fear.

“Are they here? Where are they?” he yelled at her. She shut her eyes and began to cry.

She was shaking in terror, he realized. He lowered his voice and said as calmly as he could manage, “I mean them no harm. Where are my sister’s children?”

She opened her eyes and glanced around, her eyebrows furrowed.

“My prince! Down here!” a voice came from the staircase.

Doran tore away from the maid and down the steps into what appeared to be a nursery. Myles stood cautiously with the Bastard of Lemonwood. Their swords were sheathed, and against the wall stood a nursemaid, clutching something desperately to her chest. The bundle in her arms was crying.

“It must be the prince,” the Bastard of Lemonwood said.

“Give me the child,” Doran ordered her. “No harm will come to him, nor you if you comply.”

She didn’t move. Doran sheathed his sword. “Find Rhaenys and bar the door, whatever remains of it. No one enters save Oberyn,” he told Myles. He raised his hands in peace and walked toward her. “Good woman, I need to know that my nephew is safe. Is this him? Is this Prince Aegon?”

She gulped noticeably, and glanced at the door.

“If you run, or lie, or hurt the prince, I will kill you,” he told her plainly. “Is this Elia’s son?”

She gave a small nod.

“Give him to me,” he said calmly. He heard footsteps come down the nursery stairs. He carefully took the child from her hands.

The boy was bawling as he took him in his arms. His face was red, his hands clenched, snot and tears covering his face. “Come now, enough of that,” he told the boy comfortingly. “No one’s going to hurt you, not while I’m here. Aegon,” he smiled, brushing the boy’s few wisps of hair from his face. Silver, like Rhaegar’s.

“Who are you? Where are my sister’s maids?” Doran demanded from the woman.

“Gone, my prince,” she said shakily. “King Aerys sent them all away, with her whole household.”

Doran grit his teeth angrily. “Where is Rhaenys?”

She shook her head.

“You do not know, or you will not say?” he asked impatiently.

“I don’t know, my prince, I swear—”

Ser Dagos’s voice called for him. “We found the princess, my prince! Up here!”

“Bring her up,” Doran ordered the Bastard of Lemonwood, gesturing to the maid.

Aegon was still crying furiously as Doran carried him up the stairs. The boy’s silk doublet now had blood on it, as well his forehead.

“She’s under the bed, my prince,” Dagos said. Doran leaned over as far as he could while still holding Aegon, then straightened back up. Hotah was standing outside the door, his ax in hand. The maid was still cowering in the corner.

“My prince, what do we do with them?” Ser Myles said, indicating the maids. “They are not Dornish. They are Aerys’s maids.”

Doran looked between the two women. They had both resisted telling him…was that fear for the children’s lives, or because they were enemies of Elia and Dorne?”

“Do not hurt them, and do not let them leave.” He nodded at the woman on the right. “She must have bared the door. This is Prince Aegon?”

“Yes, my prince,” she replied. So she understood who he was, then.

“Then make him quiet,” he said, handing the child to her.

He crouched down and peered underneath the large bed. At the very center he could see a small girl hiding in a ball, a black cat clutched in her small arms. Her eyes were wide and black and shining in the darkness. He couldn’t help but smile. How much like Elia she looked. He wiped the sweat and tears from his face and stood back up. The armless man was lying in the rubble sobbing, Trebor Jordayne’s large boot upon his chest.

“Get him out, and gut him,” he ordered. Then he knelt back down.

“Princess Rhaenys,” he said gently. “I’m your uncle, your mother’s big brother. Do you remember me?”

She didn’t move. She just stared back at him.

“I am here to protect you. Your mother asked me to take care of you till she returned. Can I protect you?”

She hugged her cat closer.

“Is that Balerion? Your mother told me how much you loved him. She writes to me all the time, in Sunspear. That is where I live, with your grandmother. Does your mother ever talk about her brothers?”

Rhaenys just blinked patiently, trying to discern his trustworthiness. He paused a moment.

“Do you remember your mother’s sigil? You’re mother says you are so clever, I know you must. Can you tell me what it is?”

Rhaenys gave the smallest of nods.

“Can you tell me?” he asked her. When she didn’t reply, he pointed to his rainment. “Sun and spear, right? The same as me. Sun of Nymeria and the spear of Martell. She is my sister, like you are Aegon’s. Will you come out?”

“Where’s mama?” she asked.

“She’ll be back soon. She’s with your father. He’s so excited to see you. They told me I am to play with you until they return. Would you like to play a game?”

“I’m good at games,” she informed him.

He smiled. “We could play steps and stones, would you like that?”

She nodded.

“You cannot play from under there. You will have to come out,” he explained gently.

She slowly crawled towards him, dragging her cat as she went. He gave a sigh of relief.

When she finally poked her head out, she froze. The sounds of the crowd and steel against steel could be heard in the distance. She looked around at all the strange men, some who had drawn swords, and clutched onto Doran’s arm. He lifted her up—cat and all—and she hid her face in his tunic, one eye peering through her hair. He rubbed her back soothingly. Where was Oberyn? He wondered. Where was Elia? He heard hooves on stone approaching.

“Maester Colette, and two other maesters, along with Ser Harnor, Ynglor Jordayne, and Mors Manwoody,” Hotah alerted the room.

“Let them in,” Doran said. Rhaenys’s arms tightened around his neck.

“Where are Queen Elia and Prince Oberyn?” Ser Harnor the bastard of the Tor asked as soon as he walked in. “I brought our maester for your royal sister. I will find her, and bring her to you!” he bowed and exited quickly.

His trueborn brother and Myles Manwoody entered, along with Doran’s own maester, and two maesters who could only be from the Tor and Kingsgrave.

“Did you meet any of Aerys’s men as you entered?” Doran inquired.

“No, my prince. We galloped over a score dead, though,” Ynglor Jordayne answered.

Doran’s ears pricked up.

“DORAN!” came a violent scream in the distance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New chapter! Been busy, obviously. You know, life. It's got a tendency to do that. I appreciate all you guys feedback and comments. I feel like politeness dictates I should apologize, but...this is a hobby I'm doing for free! We've all got other things going on, and I like to not have my hobbies stress me out, so thank you for no one getting irrationally angry or anything. 
> 
> Here I am just shamelessly giving a Rhaenys a better ending to hiding under her parent's bed. Not much to say here. As you've probably noticed, I'm going with Rhaegar not really being actively malicious, but allowing things, misjudging people you care about, being short sighted, etc. Jaime never thought his father would hurt the targ babies or elia because Jaime was a little too close to the situation. Someone else might have not been surprised, knowing his Reyne reputation. So Rhaegar just cannot even fathom losing, so why would Elia need more than one kingsguard? She has a city watch and she's safe in the red keep. Obviously Rhaegar completely misjudges what his father is capable of doing, otherwise he would have usurped him years ago (I doubt in canon rhaegar expected brandon to want him dead or his father to kill brandon). 
> 
> On the only positive note, martell pride. For once, Doran is not holding oberyn back or praying he would keep him mouth shut. If anything, this is a huge step for doran and oberyn's relationship--doran entrusts elia's life to oberyn. He knows oberyn will go for her, he knows the kids are in danger, and so he is forced to choose between the two and not weigh all options--oberyn makes the plan and doran must trust him and accommodate. 
> 
> Elia chapter next.


	16. Elia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prince Rhaegar burned with a cold light, now white, now red, now dark. "I left my wife and children in your hands."  
> "I never thought he'd hurt them." Jaime's sword was burning less brightly now. "I was with the king . . ."  
>  _A Storm of Swords,_ Jaime VI

She pulled at her binds frantically. “OBERYN!” she screamed as the green flames made their way towards her. _No, no, no…how many men had she seen die this way_ …the flames began to lick at her feet, tickling her, sharper now. 

“Stop!” a voice yelled, high and frightened. “Get her down!” 

She squirmed in her bindings, trying to get her feet away from the encroaching flames. Smoke burnt her eyes and she blinked. Through the green haze and saw Ser Jaime holding Aerys firmly by the arm. No one moved. 

“Get her down!” he repeated, his voice firmer this time. Aerys shook violently in his grasp, like a frightened lamb in the clutches of a lion. Young Lannister pointed past her with his sword and roared, “Open the gate!”

Then she had no eyes for anything. Elia Martell was no stranger to pain, or of death. But her pain had always been slow, aching, threatening to kill her with its persistence. Never before had it consumed her. The green flames ate at her feet quickly and soon her brother’s name turned into a single shriek. A flicker caught her skirts and danced up her legs, incinerating the beautiful dress Rhaegar had gifted her. She gasped, only to find the air too thick to breathe. She had endured headaches that felt like an ax was being taken to her skull, and a fever that burned like fire, but this… _I’m melting,_ she realized strangely. _Let it end. Please, gods, let it end._

She collapsed into something hard. _The pyre,_ she thought. In the distance she heard men yelling. Strong hands pushed her over, tearing at her skin. She screamed, but the hands did not stop, they tore at her skin as a lover would tear at a gown. She opened her eyes in confusion. Through the smoky haze she saw copper gauntlets ripping her smoldering clothes off. She coughed roughly, twitching and convulsing.

“Elia!” a voice said above her. She knew that voice…the man hissed in pain as he smacked at her legs, but he did not stop. 

“Here—“ another voice said, and suddenly cloak was covering her nakedness. Her legs felt as though they were still on fire. 

“Get her out of here!” a voice said. _Rhaegar,_ she thought dazedly.

Cool metal slid gently beneath her and she opened her eyes. “Elia,” came a shaky voice, little more than a whisper. “Elia…”

Her baby brother’s face was above hers, the sun a halo behind him. The Dornish sun, she thought. His face was covered with tears. “Elia, I have you, I have you,” he wept. 

She hardly heard him. She cried out in pain and scrunched up her eyes. 

“Get her to a maester. Now! I’ll cover—“ she heard her uncle say. 

“Hold on, Elia,” Oberyn he said as he weaved quickly through a dozen men. “MAKE WAY!” he screamed. 

“MAKE WAY FOR THE QUEEN!” _Rhaella?_ She thought for a confused moment, blinking away the black.

“MAKE WAY!”

She opened her eyes wide. A whirl of color enveloped her—color and smell and sound pressed against her eyes so she shut them tight. She tried not to breathe, not to think, but even still the smell of burning flesh gagged her. Oberyn’s hands were gentle, but her mangled body smacked against his armor with every step. Her legs…“Oberyn,” she sobbed. Her legs felt as though the skin had been removed with a knife.

“Don’t worry,” he told her, his voice more scared than she had ever heard. “Caleotte will patch you up. Elia, Elia!”

She could feel his tears on her face. She opened her eyes to look up at him. His tears burned as they ran through her wounds to her mouth. She felt them on her lips and she brought her tongue to taste them. Salt. Like the sea. 

“I want to go swimming,” she told him.

“What?” he gasped through tears, looking down at her for a moment, then up again to see where he was going. His voice was frantic. “We will, if you want. In the water gardens, like when we were children.”

 _No, in the sea,_ she wanted to say, but she was in too much pain to speak. Her jaw was shut tight as she tried to stop her bones from rattling. 

“DORAN!” he screamed furiously, his face red. “DORAN!”

She opened her eyes and looked up at her baby brother. “My babes—“ she gasped.

“Doran has them. They are safe,” Oberyn assured her. “DORAN!” 

“Traitor!” a deep roar came. Elia heard the sound of steel, and whether moments or days later a thud hit the floor.

“This way—“ her uncle said. 

Next thing she knew Oberyn was laying her down. He tried to be gentle, but every movement felt as if he was ripping her to pieces with the teeth of a dozen hounds. She could not stop sobbing and twitching. 

“Mama…” came a small voice. 

She opened her eyes slightly. A man stood above her. He looked familiar, like she should know him. She stared at him in confusion for several seconds before she noticed many strangers right beside him. 

“Oberyn,” she said dazedly.

“I’m here, I’m here,” he said at her side, smoothing down her hair. 

She watched as the maester slowly removed the white cloak. He did so as slowly as he could, but even still it felt like he was stripping off her skin. She gave a cry of pain. 

“Mama!” a voice sobbed.

“Give the queen privacy!” she heard her older brother command to the room of Dornish lords. “Secure the holdfast.”

She saw the white cloak thrown off her, covered in soot and blood and burns. Through her tears she could see her daughter, her beautiful baby girl, holding tight about her brother’s neck. 

She could hear a frantic voice and then others, arguing. A moment later Oberyn’s hand was behind her head, holding up her neck.

“Drink, Elia,” he told her, holding a cup to her lips. With difficulty, she spluttered down the drink. He took it from her and kissed her forehead. “Sleep, dear gods, sleep.”

“We may be forced to amputate it,” she heard someone say.

“Oberyn,” she panicked, looking around.

“I’m here, I’m here, Elia,” he took her hand in his and held it to his cheek. She could feel their tears mixing on her face. He glanced down quickly, then back at her. She tried to follow his gaze but he placed a hand on her face. “Don’t look. Just look at me. Look at me, Elia.”

She did as she was told. His face was blurry. She looked at him, trying just to see and not feel, to just see, to see his face, his dark eyes and the way his nose curved—but she did feel—she felt the fire on her legs again and shrieked, and then she saw nothing at all. 

When she woke again, she had no idea how much time had passed. She opened her eyes weakly. Oberyn was still there, smearing something on her face with his bare hand. She blinked slowly, then coughed. She felt bile rush up her throat and she turned her head to vomit. Then she grit her teeth in pain and moaned, not even having the strength to wipe her mouth. 

“No, no,” Oberyn despaired above her. “Elia…”

“How is she awake?” she heard Doran say. She gave a great cry of pain and sat straight up. 

She was naked, she saw. Her dress had been burnt away to her waist, the rest cut open with a blade. There was soot on her stomach and chest as if she had just been playing by the fire. When she looked down, she didn’t understand what she saw. It was her legs, she told herself, but this was not what legs looked like. Her thighs were red and black and raw. Great white bubbles had sprung up on the side. Below her right knee she saw her skin had burnt off in crisps and the bones of her foot were visible. The left side was even worse. There was no foot there. Had it been chopped off or just melted away? She stared at her legs, transfixed. 

But then there were hands on her bones and the pain returned. Oberyn held her to his chest as she sobbed and Doran said fiercely, “Damn you! Give her more milk of the poppy!”

She heard more voices, but she could not understand what they were saying. Oberyn was before her again, holding a cup to her lips. He stroked her hair.

“Drink, Elia, drink. You’ll sleep. It’ll all be over when you wake. Just a dream,” he said thickly. She could hardly see him through her tears.

The voices in the room seemed louder now. She shut her eyes and took a shaking gulp of the thick draught. When she opened her eyes, she saw him. 

“Rhaegar?” she said weakly. Oberyn turned his head.

He was standing in the doorway, the grand maester beside him holding a large chest. He was armored still, the red rubies glistening in the light from the fire, his silver hair glowing. “Elia,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. She could see the grief on his face and tears spring to his eyes. He stepped toward her.

“I said leave,” Doran said forcefully. Elia saw Areo Hotah take a step toward Rhaegar, but her uncle placed one hand on his shoulder and the other towards Doran in placation. 

Rhaegar tore his eyes away from her to Doran. “Rhaenys,” he choked, seeing their daughter in Doran’s arms. Elia could see her head buried in his chest, Doran’s hand tight on her back. Rhaegar looked back at Elia pleadingly. 

She was about to say his name when instead she grunted in pain. The tears leaked out of her eyes and she bit her lip so hard it began to bleed. Oberyn had not let her go, and he held her tight as she wept, trying to keep her still. “Hold on, hold on,” he entreated shakily. “Look at what you’ve done! LOOK AT HER! LOOK AT HER!”

And Rhaegar did, and she saw the tears begin to fall. “Elia,” he wept. 

She wanted to reach out for him, for him to hold her, to comfort her, to make everything better. “Drink, Elia,” Oberyn’s voice said, and he helped her take another gulp. She was shaking so bad it was difficult. Rhaegar’s face was pale, his dark indigo eyes so wide and so full of sadness it was as if he was bearing her pain too…but he wasn’t. 

He wasn’t in pain at all. 

“Get out,” she breathed. He stood there, looking confused and hurt. She was the one who should be confused and hurt. He had left her. He had let this happen to her. How she hated him, how she never wanted to see him again, he who had forgotten her, had betrayed her. He looked at her like he hadn’t heard her correctly. 

“GET OUT!” she shrieked ferociously, hair and spit and blood flying around. She threw the cup in her hands at his head as hard as she could. He ducked in surprise as it shattered on the wall behind him. She could feel the darkness coming, the sleep of the milk. Tears were falling freely as she searched for something else to throw at him.

“GET OUT! GET OUT! GET OUUUUUT!” she screeched, and then she felt only the black and her brother’s arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me: Let’s give Elia a better ending than canon  
> Also me: burns her at the stake
> 
>  
> 
> ...and it’s still better than her canon fate??!?!? Damn grrm. If you've ever seen Big Little Lies on HBO, I visualize Elia's last line similar to Laura Dern's "I SAID THANK YOUUUUUU!"
> 
> So we've got Jaime faced again with kingsguard vs true knighthood, but unlike canon it is also rhaegar vs aerys, rhaegar who he idolizes, unlike robert vs aerys. So an interesting thing to play with will be how Jaime will be perceived in this canon, and his subsequent character development, since jaime is pretty jaded from his canon kingslaying experience, and thenceforth does some pretty horrible things. So will Jaime become disillusioned with authority and power as he does in canon, or will the idolization of rhaegar prove enchanting enough for him? We will see. Look forward to seeing these repercussions, and how his relationships with Rhaegar, Elia, Rhaella, Barristan, Lewyn, Cersei, and Tywin play out...
> 
> So if you paid attention (/remember since its been a bit) we've got some background Lewyn conflict--some that is actually vaguely similar to AFFC Jaime--what to do when kingsguard/knighthood is in direct opposition with family goals. It's clearly something Lewyn is aware of--that as a kingsguard you don't actually HAVE to follow your orders--it's Lewyn who realizes first that Elia's fate was not in Aerys's hands but in Jaime's last chapter. So we've got Lewyn on this sometimes thin line of straddling duty and disobedience--on one hand he begs Rhaegar to let him stay with Elia, on the other hand he doesn't refuse the order to leave, he goes with Oberyn to save Elia with little regard for the Rhaegar/Aerys confrontation, but he also lowkey sides with Rhaegar when Rhaegar comes to see Elia. 
> 
> And finally, Martells are all together. Worst way possible, but hey, still.


	17. Catelyn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> My first rule of war, Cat—never give the enemy his wish.
> 
> Catelyn I, _A Clash of Kings_

She swirled the cup in her hands, watching the drink spiral. Flecks of tea tumbled around, spinning and whirling helplessly. She could hear the water lapping at the shore, crashing over rock and stone as it cut through the earth like a knife through flesh. She could smell the mint of the tea, but other things as well, wet clay and moss and—

“Lady Catelyn?” A voice said.

Catelyn snapped out of her reverie. Ser Steffon stood before her, plainly garbed and beaded with sweat. 

“I asked if the tea was to your liking,” he said, wiping his brow. 

She nodded. She had not even heard him return to the tent. 

He cocked his head concernedly. “Is something amiss?”

She was drinking hot tea to her liking, how could something be amiss? Three days had come and gone since she revealed her awareness, yet she still had no plan of escape. A guard stayed with her in the tent day and night, always watching. When she was awake, Ser Steffon removed the chains about her wrists, but every night a man would refasten them to her ankles around the post she had made a bed. The most privacy she received was when a squire brought her a bucket to use as a privy, but even then the guard only looked away pointedly. Her auburn waves had turned dank and oily and her clothes were in sore need of washing. The night before the same squire had brought her a bucket full of cold water from the Trident and a bar of much-needed soap. When she picked up the soap to smell it, she saw the man guarding her look quickly to the ground, yet not quick enough for her to miss the hunger in his eyes. After that, she found herself less than eager to undress, and settled for washing her hands and face. 

Every hour she dreaded that a man would dash into the tent to tell her that the castle would fall on the morrow, but the man never came. Yet the day drew nearer and her chains were no less iron. How could she get to her uncle in time? 

She set the cup of tea down on the table, its contents still whirling around. If she could just get out of the tent, then perhaps she could see the camp and the best route to escape. She pointed at Ser Steffon, then at herself, then to the tent flap. He pointed at himself.

“Us?”

She pointed to the tent opening.

He squinted in confusion. “You want to go outside?”

She nodded and stood up.

“Why?” he asked, wiping his sweaty neck with a cloth. “It’s warmer here, by the brazier.”

She stared at him for a moment, confused. _Why? Because I have not left this tent for near a week._ How much kinder she was without tongue, and how much kinder he was to her, surely. If she had her voice, she surely would have lost her temper half a dozen times. She settled for a vague gesture, but he only shook his head in confusion. Then it came to her. She laid one hand flat before her and mimed writing on it.

“Write—oh!” he nodded, throwing his sweaty cloth to the ground and disappearing into a thick wooden chest. A moment later he emerged, pencil and paper in hand. 

“I thought…we…might...take a…walk…to…stretch…our…legs,” he read aloud slowly when she was done. She looked up at him. 

He looked apologetic. “Well…” he looked over his shoulder. “The camp is crowded with men, sellswords and freeriders and smallfolk. It’s not safe, my lady.”

She did not try to hide her disappointment. 

“Perhaps we could walk on the morrow,” he suggested. “In the morning, while most of the camp sleeps.”

She smiled then, and he returned it, a wide boyish grin full of relief. Tomorrow. She just had to hold on till tomorrow. Ser Steffon left her then to wash. She wondered why he preferred a small tub of lukewarm water to the endless expanse of the river. As a girl, she had oft swum in the Trident after a long day of play in the dirt and mud and trees of the godswood. But that had been in high summer, she realized. 

She drank her tea slowly. Ser Harys entered with a fellow knight, hardly sparing her more than a glance. They spoke at length of gold and land and promises and Catelyn was left to listen quietly. Before long they had left again. She took another small sip as the camp bustled about her. They were all waiting, every one, just like she. She tried to keep her mind from falling into despair. _Tomorrow. I will see the camp tomorrow. I will find a way to escape,_ she assured herself. No matter what she did, her mind returned to Riverrun like a moth to a flame. If she could not occupy her hands, she could occupy her mind. Perhaps she could form a plan, just sitting. Perhaps she could…she could…she lowered her eyes and took a sip from her tea, only to find the cup empty. Her son. She blinked back tears. _Must I tear out my heart to think elsewhere but him?_ Even that would not suffice, she knew. She would have to tear out her eyes not to see him, her ears not to hear him, yet it would not be enough. Even when she cleared her mind of him, her breasts ached as her very flesh demanded why he was not safe in her arms. 

When dusk fell, Catelyn found herself completely unchained and sitting at the great wooden table. Men drifted into the tent in ones and twos as Ser Steffon hailed them with a mug of ale. Some of the men she recognized—like the Brax man or the Prestor knight called Thoren—but many she did not. The eyes that greeted her were awkward and confused and indifferent and excited. Every time a man entered, Ser Steffon would place a hand on her shoulder and stretch another before him in drunk gallantry to introduce each man to her. She wished heartily that he would just leave her to her chained post and her thoughts.

“Prince Rhaegar can’t mean to wait forever at Harrenhal.”

Catelyn flicked her eyes to him curiously. Prince Rhaegar had taken Harrenhal? She wondered what had happened to Lady Shella. Surely she would be treated gently, would she not? Catelyn listened closely. Perhaps their words would not hasten her escape, but they certainly would be of use to her uncle or Ser Desmond. 

The table creaked as dish after dish piled on. Amidst the food and drink, Catelyn searched for a goblet to fill with water. She saw an empty cup and reached, only for the man with the fresh cut through his eyebrow to snatch it as he chatted unknowingly to the man beside him. 

“Here,” came Ser Steffon’s voice at her side. He held out his own tankard of ale for her to drink. She hesitated. _No man is more cursed than he who breaks guest right,_ she thought. But another voice insisted, _I am a prisoner, no guest, no matter how honeyed sweet his words are._ She had already eaten Ser Steffon’s food and drink, yet somehow drinking from his own cup felt wrong. Men feed their prisoners, but not from their own plate. And suddenly she remembered another time when she had shared a man’s cup. She had been scarcely more than a child the first time Brandon had visited Riverrun all those years ago. _We’re to be wed. What is mine is yours, and yours mine,_ he had said, and so she took a sip. She still remembered the way he smiled…how young he had been, hardly a man grown. Yet when the day came, it was Ned who had given her the Stark name and in turn she had given him a son. _What is mine is yours, and yours mine._ The gift had been for naught—she was Catelyn Tully again, mother of nothing. The babe she had birthed was Evelyn’s son now, and when the stranger came for him he would die with the name Evelyn gave him, not as Hoster Stark. How will Ned find him? How will her father?

She took the cup from his hands and took a small sip. _What is mine is his,_ she thought sadly. _What is mine is Lord Tywin’s._ She gave the cup back to him. He gave a knowing smile like they had just shared some private jest, then took a great gulp. _What is mine is his, but it will not be given. He must take it, just as Lord Tywin._

The men stuffed themselves with food and drink and words and Catelyn watched as one by one they fell into their cups. She drank little, and grasped at the small hope she had. If all she could do was listen, then she would listen. Amidst their idle prattle, Catelyn Tully learned more than what she knew what to do with. She learned that the man called Jason had three new boils on his thigh and the man with the slur had lost his father’s armor in a bet, but they said other things too, like that Lord Walder Frey had sent his sons and grandsons to join Lord Tywin’s siege, that Jon Arryn had died of his wounds and the Knights of the Vale hid silently behind their Bloody Gate, that Lady Mallister had held Seagard against the ironmen though they had burnt half the coast and then sailed North, that the Red Viper had killed his elder brother and marched the Dornish army south to usurp his nephew’s birthright, that Prince Rhaegar had recovered from his wounds and Lord Tywin had sent his brother Kevan to him, that Stannis Baratheon had crowned himself Storm King like Argella Durrandon had, that Rhaegar had killed Aerys and claimed the throne, that Rhaegar’s wife had killed Lady Lyanna in a fit of jealousy, that Aerys had burned his queen alive and she rose out of the pyre a dragon.

Catelyn did not know what was true and what was false. Oft falsehoods hid bits of truth, she knew. Lord Walder Frey had not come to Riverrun when her father had called the banners, but why he would come to Lord Tywin at Riverrun instead of Prince Rhaegar at Harrenhal seemed suspect. Though perhaps Rhaegar was not even at Harrenhal…but Lady Shella had written her saying his army had passed through her lands to reach Lord Robert’s army. The riders from her uncle had said Rhaegar had been gravely injured, and Harrenhal was the best-fitting castle for a great army to make camp while their prince heals. Lord Tywin wanted Riverrun, she knew that, so what did Old Lord Frey gain sending men to the implacable Tywin Lannister? But it was not Lord Frey, it was his sons—the second of which was wed to a Lannister, Lord Tywin’s own sister. Her father had never trusted Lord Frey, and had never liked how friendly he was with Casterly Rock. Perhaps Ser Emmon hoped to use position as Lord Tywin’s good-brother for some reward, just like Ser Harys had. _Others take them all,_ she thought. _Lord Tywin and Lord Frey and Ser Harys and all the rest. Let them turn on each other as dogs do when they fight for scraps._

Pages and squires cleared the table of food and soon cards and coins and dice covered the table. A dozen drunken arms shot forward to grab a handful of cards. When Ser Steffon drew them to his chest, he showed them to her. Two fools, a crown, a beggar, three keys, a faceless man, the virgin queen. She looked at them appraisingly, though her mind was far away. She prayed that Lady Mallister had indeed thrown back the ironmen. Last she knew her uncle had been near Mallister lands. Had he marched north to expel the ironmen? And Jon Arryn…if he was truly dead, Lysa was a widow too now, and Lord Tywin could wed her to whomever he pleased. He had not been wounded, though, had he? He was marching with Uncle Brynden. He couldn’t be dead. If he was dead, his duty to Riverrun died with him. She realized Ser Steffon was waiting for her, so she pointed to a card in his hand. Ser Steffon placed a key on the table. _Lord Jon. Uncle. Where are you?_

“Careful, Steff. Gayle lies like a Dornishman,” the man called Jason warned with a chuckle. He was wearing a plain brown tunic with no heraldry, and Catelyn was left wondering who he was.

The gambling and dicing went on. The more drinks they had, the friendlier they became. The boy in Lannister garb who could not have been more than four-and-ten who had been as mute as she during dinner was now jesting and laughing with the rest. The man called Jason kept asking her if she wanted more wine, but Catelyn only smiled politely and shook her head. As the night bore on, Catelyn watched as a small pile formed before Ser Steffon.

“Nothing like a lady’s favor to improve a man’s fortunes, is there, Steff?” Merlon Crakehall jested.

Ser Steffon only laughed and helped himself to more wine. He leaned towards her. “Hear that, my lady? You’re my luck.”

Thrice blessed, Ser Tygett had said. A shiver shot through her, stopping painfully at her throat. She swallowed. _If only I had some for myself,_ she thought dully. He showed her his cards and she pointed to one at random. She would learn nothing else of import tonight, that was for certain. The conversation had descended to curses immediately followed by raucous laughter as men lost their possessions. When Thoren Prestor lost five dragons to the Lannister boy, he cuffed the boy good-naturedly on the ear before leaving the tent in a show of annoyance. Catelyn looked to Ser Steffon at her side, red-faced and beaming. He would sleep half the day on the morrow, she realized. There would be no morning walk. Had the fate of Riverrun been sealed this night, when Steffon Swyft decided on one too many mugs of ale?

When the Prestor knight returned, he was not alone. A tall woman with hair the color of freshly plowed earth followed him into the tent, clutching his arm and laughing with him. Many of the men did not notice his return, being so far into their cups. Thoren took his place on the bench, pulling the woman onto his lap. Catelyn felt bile in her throat. Once, she would have been angry, but now all she felt was shame. Is this what she had been reduced to? She could bear it all, she would bear it all, anything, just so that her family would live. _Family, Duty, Honor,_ she told herself. But it was all for naught. Whatever shame she endured placed her no nearer to escape. _Turn your eyes from this place, father,_ she thought. He should be at peace, not bearing witness to his daughter’s grief and shame. It was then that Steffon noticed.

“What are you doing?” he demanded of Thoren Prestor.

“If you have a woman to bring you luck, it’s only fair I should as well,” he replied, helping himself to a cup of wine. He handed it to the woman for a taste. “Sweet, yea?”

Ser Steffon stood up, his drink clattering over. Catelyn dodged the river of ale. “How dare you—get that whore out of here! Have you taken leave of your wits?”

Thoren only scoffed and laid out his cards.

Gayle Brax raised an appeasing hand to Steffon, then turned to Ser Thoren. “Thoren, you disgrace yourself and Lady Catelyn. Ser Steffon speaks true. Send this whore away.”

“And take yourself as well, you ingrate,” Ser Steffon yelled at him. “Before it comes to blood.”

He drew the dirk at his side. For a moment the tent fell silent as all the drunken men looked from Steffon to the shining steel in his hand. Then a great cacophony arose as the tent filled with threats and laughter and warnings and platitudes.

“Calm down, Steff—have a drink—“

“Thoren—just go—“

The two men stared at each other, ears deaf to the pleas of their comrades. Thoren spoke, his voice full of poison. “She’s your prisoner, not your lady, Steff. She does not require you to defend her honor.”

“I will not have you dishonor her in my presence,” Ser Steffon jabbed the air with his dirk.

Thoren only laughed, his head falling into the neck of the whore on his lap. When he looked up he asked, “Are you trying to impress her, is that it? Lord Tywin named your father her gaoler. You think he gave you her to wed?” 

Ser Steffon’s face twitched guiltily. Catelyn felt the eyes on her. _He wants my claim,_ she realized. Just as Tygett Lannister did. She was not surprised. She supposed she had known all along. Ser Steffon had been more courteous about it, and for that she almost forgave him. Almost. She clenched her teeth tightly, letting the truth wash over her. _He wants my claim. He wants Edmure dead._ She wanted nothing more than to slap him, to say to his face that Edmure was the rightful Lord of Riverrun and ask if he meant to kill her young brother himself. 

Thoren shook his head in disbelief. ”You’re a fool, Swyft. Lord Tywin will give her to his brother, mark my words, and not because he impressed her.”

“Thoren…” the Brax man murmured half-heartedly, but the others at the table were silent, glancing between Thoren and Steffon. The camp follower looked at Catelyn curiously. Catelyn clenched her teeth together and looked up at Ser Steffon. _Make them leave. Make them all leave._

“Not a big a fool as I seem. My sister Dorna was a prisoner once herself, to Ser Kevan Lannister.”

“House Swyft’s greatest accomplishment—wheedling their way into the beds of their betters,” Thoren said and Ser Steffon’s face contorted with rage. Catelyn held her breath, but Thoren continued without a worry. “A wonder how—chinless lot that you are.”

“Are you drunk?” Steffon demanded. 

“Not near as much as you, yet you’re so stiff for her red cunny and her father’s castle you are about to snap in two,” Thoren said scornfully, pointing between Steffon’s legs. “Neither is for you. You best get that into your head before you make a greater fool of yourself.”

Ser Steffon lunged at him then, his dirk clenched in his fist. The force pushed her seat back where surely would have fallen had she been drunker. Thoren toppled back off the bench in fright as three men grabbed at Ser Steffon’s arms. The camp follower jumped away more gracefully. Steffon wrenched one arm free, his elbow meeting the nose of the man who grabbed him with a loud crunch. 

“Out! GET OUT!” Ser Steffon bellowed, red-faced, several strong arms wrapped around his chest attempting to pull him backwards. Thoren struggled awkwardly to his feet, his eyes wide. Without another word he stumbled out the tent, the camp follower pulling him by the arm. 

Ser Steffon’s chest heaved and fell as he stared after Thoren. The men still had not let go of him. Catelyn watched them in silence, waiting. She wished she could fade into the walls of the tent, forgotten. 

“Get off,” he growled, shoving the arms away. “Get off!”

The other men released him, looking wary. Ser Steffon looked at the entrance to the tent sourly. Then he stabbed his dirk angrily into the table, driving it deep into the wood. No one spoke. Gayle Brax exchanged a look with Merlon Crakehall. 

“Men are fools with wine, but Thoren has always been the fool of fools,” Gayle Brax said finally. 

“You’re too kind,” Steffon replied sourly. “He’s not a drunkard, he’s a drunkard without honor.”

Ser Gayle had nothing to say to that, so he just shrugged. Steffon spat. “He comes back here, I’ll kill him,” he assured Ser Gayle. “You tell him that.”

Ser Gayle looked uncertainly at the Crakehall knight then back at Ser Steffon. “Now?”

“Yes—now!” Steffon raged. 

“I am no page, Swyft,” Ser Gayle retorted shortly. 

Ser Steffon looked at him darkly for a long moment. Then he turned away. “Get out. Fuck—all of you, out.”

Several of the men exited hastily, eager to leave the less than enjoyable dinner. The Crakehall put a hand on Gayle Brax’s shoulder, but Brax refused to move. 

“Thoren may be an ass, but he was right. You are a fool, Swyft,” he told Steffon. Then he whirled about, his purple cloak whipping the air before he strode out the tent. The Crakehall knight followed him quickly, leaving the tent empty but Ser Steffon and her. His fists were clenched, his chest rising and falling rapidly. They remained like that for several long minutes, so long Catelyn wondered if he had forgotten she was there. Finally, he stumbled drunkenly back towards the table, drinking the remains of one of the cups and tossing it away. 

He glanced at her. “See…I defended you. You happy? You…impressed?” he asked, his voice still full of the anger he unleashed at Ser Thoren. She nodded quickly. For the first time since her imprisonment, she was worried what he would do. 

He upturned an empty cup and slumped into the bench beside her. “Fuck…fuck him. I’m no fool. Am I?”

She shook her head, her fear dissipating as quickly as it appeared. She placed a comforting hand on his arm. “Yea. Yea,” he agreed. “I am no fool. You’ll have…to marry someone. Why not me? Why not me?”

He huffed, laying his head on the table, his eyes unfocused as he looked at her. “I’m…good. As any. I’m…good to you. Yes?”

She felt her anger and resentment of him lessening, and something else forming, something that felt like pity. He had not let her free, but he had kept her safe, had he not? He had given her food and drink plenty, and defended her honor. Was that enough to forgive him? She stood up suddenly.

“Wha—?”

Unencumbered, she hurried over to the wooden chest and rummaged through it until she found the pen and paper from that morning. Maybe she could still reach her uncle. Steffon rubbed his eyes sleepily, reading aloud as she wrote.

“Lord…Tywin…means…to…kill…me,” he read with far more difficulty than that morning. He shook his head dismissively. “No, he doesn’t. He needs you…to claim Riverrun.”

Catelyn scratched two words quickly on the paper. Ser Steffon blinked, trying to focus. 

“My…” his voice trailed off and he looked up at her, and she knew he understood. They could sneak away in the night while the camp slept and find her uncle. She could dress like a squire. It would be hard to tell in the dark she was a woman, if she dressed right. “But…”

She took her pen to the paper hastily. “Save me,” she wrote. “Please. You could be my knight. I could be your lady.”

She looked up hopefully only to find Ser Steffon’s eyes shut. She shook his arm, but he only sighed. She shook harder. _No, no, no! Wake up! Wake up!_ She hit his arm and he let out a snore. _No!_ She was so close. So close. She balled up the paper furiously. 

When it became clear that no amount of hitting would wake Ser Steffon up, Catelyn sat down beside him with a huff. She stared at his back, rising and falling as he snored softly. They were alone. She felt her heart quicken. They were alone. They were alone, and Ser Steffon was asleep, and she was unchained. She was unchained. She glanced around, her heart racing. Now was her best chance at escape, was it not? When would she get another? She would have to get out of the camp unseen. And if she was caught…she swallowed, looking at her gaoler. If they didn’t kill her, surely they would put her in a cage far away from any knight with an inch of pity or kindness. But if she did not escape, Riverrun would fall, and she would die anyways. She had to escape and she had to escape now, she decided. She stood up and walked to the edge of the tent to open the flap and peek out. The camp was far from deserted or asleep. She could see men drinking and dicing, peals of laughter echoing through the night. North. She could cut North through the camp. She would not get far without a horse, and she had to hope by some stroke of luck she could steal one. If Steffon were awake, he could get them each a horse with ease…she ducked back in the tent and shook Ser Steffon again, yet he remained unmoved. Her heart thumped loudly in her chest. Her legs felt like lead, but she took a step towards Ser Steffon’s section of the tent anyways. Clothes. She needed different clothes. That was the first step. She entered his chambers and walked around his bed, searching. She would need something plain, without heraldry, and warm. She knelt down before a great chest, setting her crumpled note beside her. She rummaged through until she found a thick woolen doublet that seemed suitable. She pulled out a pair of heavy socks. What was she to do for shoes? The ones she wore were adequate enough for a day’s ride, but they were not riding boots. 

“Steff?”

Catelyn stiffened. _Ser Harys._ She threw everything back into the chest and stood up quickly. _The note!_

“Steff, wake up! Seven—help!”

Catelyn swooped down and grabbed the note. She would have to destroy it, but there was no time. 

“Guards! Lady Catelyn! Lady Catelyn!” Ser Harys yelped. 

Catelyn stuffed the paper in her mouth and grabbed a pillow from Ser Steffon’s bed. She forced herself to walk towards Ser Harys’s shouting slowly as if nothing were amiss.

“Lady—what are you—“ Ser Harys spluttered when he saw her. She held up the pillow in her hands and nodded politely to the dumbstruck Ser Harys. Then she walked over to where Ser Steffon laid, his head upon the table. She lifted his head carefully and placed the pillow underneath. 

Two men rushed in. “Ser Harys! What’s—wrong?”

Ser Harys finally stopped staring at her. He shook his head and turned to them. “Why is she not guarded? I came back, and she was unchained and unguarded!” Ser Harys demanded angrily. “I should have you whipped raw! What if she had escaped?”

“Pardon, milord. Pardon. Ser Steffon sent us out, we—“

“Ser Steff—I give the orders here!” he said indignantly. Catelyn bowed her head humbly, her heart still pounding against her chest. Ser Harys’s eyes travelled from Ser Steffon’s unconscious body to her. She could feel his eyes on her as she stared at the ground. “Get out. Get out before I beat you senseless!”

The men hastened to obey. “No—come back, you fools! I want a guard on her day and night, that is what I said, didn’t I?”

“Yes, ser,” one of the men replied obediently, his eyes glancing at her as if seeking guidance.

“And you…” he turned to her. She did her best to look meek. The paper in her mouth felt as if it was growing, like dough rising in an oven. “What happened here? Did you get him drunk?”

She shook her head earnestly. 

“Then what? What happened?”

She gestured quickly to her throat. He huffed in annoyance and pulled at his small beard. “Put her back in her chains and watch her till I say otherwise,” Ser Harys ordered the two men. Catelyn watched resignedly as the men clamped irons on her ankles and wrists, her escape slipping through her fingers just after she had grasped it. 

As she had predicted, Ser Steffon slept through all the next morning. He may have slept through the afternoon as well if he had been left to his own devices. His father, however, rose by midmorning, and stewed in anger till noon until he finally dumped a bucket of chilly river water over Steffon’s head. Steffon awoke with a groggy moan. The water rolled over the table like a flood and seeped into the rug as it sought to return to the earth. He lifted his head off the table to look at his father, then sighed and set it back down. Harys threw the bucket at him, but it did no more than if he had thrown it against a boulder.

“Get up,” Harys ordered him. He glanced at one of the squires. “Get him up!”

The young squire pulled on Steffon’s arm until Steffon finally swatted the boy away. The boy took the blow to the chest and stumbled into the table, knocking some empty mugs over with a clatter. The noise caused Steffon to groan, and he reached out blindly to grab one of the mugs and slam it into the squire’s chest.

“Water,” he said, his voice parched. As the boy scampered off, Ser Steffon sat up and shook his head like a dog, water flying everywhere. His father squawked, raising his hands to block the unwanted shower. 

“Did you drink away your wits?” Ser Harys asked grumpily.

Steffon glanced at her seated in the corner of the room, and at the two men beside her. She looked away politely. As annoyed as she had been at Ser Steffon last night, she did not want him to resent her for witnessing his reprimand. No man with any pride enjoyed a woman present when being scolded like a child. Steffon pulled off his wet shirt and found a cloth to dry himself. His skin was shockingly pale, the hair on it more reddish brown than the hair on his head. “They just haven’t woken up yet,” he replied groggily, his voice muffled by the towel. 

“Lord Tywin has called me for council,” Ser Harys informed his son importantly as Steffon sat back down and kicked off his boots. “Riders came not an hour ago. By the time I return, you best not look or smell the part of a drunken fool.”

 _Riders? From who?_ Catelyn straightened up, listening. She peered after Steffon as he walked into the other part of the tent, hoping he would ask.

“Do you hear me?” Ser Harys followed him angrily.

Steffon poked his head back out, a fresh tunic partially covering his face. “Yes, father,” he said tiredly, as if he wished for nothing more than his father to stop talking. 

Ser Harys harrumphed and left. Steffon called for food and returned to the wooden table. He picked up the soaking pillow curiously, but set it down without a word and waited sleepily for his food. He did not usually ignore her, but Catelyn supposed that for now, he preferred to pretend she was not there. When the food came, he tore off a leg of chicken hungrily and tossed the bone onto the table before turning to her.

“You hungry?” he asked. She nodded, so he motioned for her to come join him. She was not chained, and so she walked across the tent and sat across from him. He tore off a piece of bread, dipped it in broth, and popped it in his mouth. He stared at her for a long moment as he licked grease off his fingers. He looked like he was trying to remember a forgotten dream. 

“You didn’t run away,” he finally said, his eyebrows creased. It wasn’t a question, so she just sat there, nibbling on a piece of bread. 

“You didn’t run away,” he repeated. “We were alone, and I was asleep, and you didn’t run off.”

Again, she just stared at him. His face relaxed, and he gave a small chuckle. “My father said you would slit my throat and run off if I gave you the chance. Seems he was wrong about you. Among other things.”

She had tried to run away, of course. She had tried to get him to help her run away. He didn’t seem to remember that. Perhaps that was a good thing, she thought. If she asked him right now to help her escape, would he? He wanted her, he had shown as much last night. He wanted to marry her and rule Riverrun. She had to convince him that the only way that would happen would be if he helped her escape. She watched him take a long draft of water as her mind raced. Then, she reached across the table and took his hand. 

His eyes widened in surprise over the top of his mug. He set it down quickly and wiped his mouth nervously on the back of his hand. She gave him a smile, one that she hoped said, “Of course I wouldn’t leave you.”

He returned the smile, his whole face lighting up with boyish delight. He might not be handsome the way Brandon was, but he was sweet and honest when he smiled. She opened her mouth to say something, and then shut it when she remembered she couldn’t talk. He laughed and called for some hot tea for her, then pointed to one of the guards and told him to bring him pen and paper. 

She removed her hand from atop his to take the pen and paper from the guard. _Best not write treasons this time, Catelyn Tully._ She could write a book of treasons, if she wanted. Her uncle had told her once that some truths were hard to swallow, but she found treasons even harder, especially when written on thick parchment. She paused for a moment, trying to decide what to write.

“I have no wish to leave you. You have been kind to me, and defended my honor. For that I am grateful,” she wrote. She did not want him to forget her honor, or his. He could have had his way with her half a hundred times if he wanted to, but he hadn’t. She could not let him forget his honor. 

“Of course, my lady,” he said, taking her hand again. This time he caressed it. She made herself smile, then her face fell sadly as she took her hand from his. 

“If only we lived other lives, and met before this war. Then perhaps we could be together,” she wrote. His eyes furrowed as he read it, and he looked up at her. 

“What do you mean, my lady?” he asked, taking her hand again, much to her annoyance. “We will be together. When my father returns, I will go to Lord Tywin and ask for your hand—“

She shook her head violently and began to write furiously, “He will kill me—”

“No, he won’t, my lady. If he wanted to, you would be dead already—“

 _He will; he will!_ She shook her head in silent argument.

“He won’t, Lady Catelyn, I swear, you have nothing to fear—“ he said as she fought silently with him. He made to hold take her hand again, but she swatted it out of the way angrily and grabbed the pen.

“My lady! Calm down; calm down!” he said, grabbing her writing hand firmly between his two hands. Her head snapped up and their eyes met. 

“Come now,” he said gently, his voice soft enough to calm a frightened horse. “It will be alright. I am sure this war has been very scary for you, but you are safe now. You are safe here with me. I swear it. I won’t let anything happen to you.”

She shook her head mutely. He seemed so sure. How could he be so sure? _What happens to me has nothing to do with you!_ She wanted to tell him, her heart racing rapidly. _Not if we stay here, under lock and key of Tywin Lannister._ He glanced toward the opening of the tent. He smiled tentatively and nodded his head towards it. “Let’s go for that walk I owe you, yeah?”

He stood up and released her hands to walk to the opening and poke his head out to observe the camp. “It’s not morning like I said, but no one will bother us if I put on full plate. The fresh air will do us some good.”

She bit her lip, then sighed resignedly and nodded. She could try to find an escape route, and tonight convince him to run away with her. As much as she wanted to convince him now, it had been far too long since she had left this blasted tent. As much as the timing of his proposal annoyed her, fresh air would do her some good. He smiled again, and called for his squire to come help him don his armor. Catelyn sat at the table, her hands clamped nervously in her lap as she watched Steffon chat almost giddily to his squire. She had to convince him to turn against Lord Tywin, his father, his duty, all to help her get to her uncle. How was she to manage that? 

Every so often he would look up at her and smile. She made herself return it, hoping it looked genuine. Eventually her hands were sweating so badly she forced herself to eat some of the bread on the table just to occupy them. Her own mind buzzed so loudly it was awhile before Catelyn realized that the camp had begun to buzz as well. The sound in the camp rose and fell like the waves of the sea heading to shore. The wind rustled the walls of the tent, blowing murmuring voices through the flaps.

“Steff! Steff! Steff!” came a frantic shout as a small figure skidded into the tent. Catelyn recognized him immediately as the youngest man from the night before, the Lannister boy who was all elbows and pimples. He brushed his stringy blonde hair out of his eyes. 

“Dicky—what’s going on?” Steffon asked, the squire beneath his right arm still dutifully tightening straps.

“Riders from Ser Kevan—have you heard? It’s Prince Rhaegar! Well, not prince—I mean—he’s King Rhaegar now!”

Catelyn’s heart quickened. “King Rhaegar?” Steffon paused, his eyes confused. “Did the Mad King die?” 

Rhaegar? King? Catelyn thought, wondering what that might mean…what that might mean for Riverrun. She turned eagerly to the boy Dicky, the bread falling forgotten from her hands.

“Might be,” Dicky said excitedly, bobbing from one foot to the other. “Must be. Rhaegar Targaryen sits on the Iron Throne in King’s Landing. That’s what I heard.”

 _There is no peace for any of us while Mad Aerys sits the Iron Throne,_ Catelyn remembered Ser Desmond saying before the siege began. How long ago that felt, as if ten years had past, not a fortnight. Instinctively, she turned towards Riverrun. Could there be peace now, with Rhaegar instead of Aerys?

“Well I can’t say I’ll miss King Scab,” Steffon remarked.

“Neither will Lord Tywin. That’s what my father says,” Dicky replied. 

Had Rhaegar truly killed his own father? The thought made her sick. What sort of man would kill his own father? She thought of her own father, strong and noble. She could see him in her mind’s eye, his face as red as his hair as he raged at the news of Brandon’s death. Brandon…Brandon had gone to kill Rhaegar, but Aerys had killed him, and Rhaegar had killed Aerys. _Let Aerys burn in seven hells for that._ If Rhaegar had truly killed Aerys, Catelyn decided it was just. If any man deserved such a curse as to be slain by his own father, it was Aerys Targaryen.

Her father had always hated Aerys, first for his weakness, then for his cruelty. Lord Mallister and his son had died alongside Brandon and his father, and Seaguard was not alone among the Riverlords eager to join Robert’s Rebellion. “Would he spit on his lords and then murder us?” her father had scorned at dinner to her uncle while she sat quietly in grief. “Two husbands I found—fine, strong boys, noble—first he steals the Lannister heir for his Kingsguard, and now Brandon is murdered, and my daughters have no husbands! Perhaps that is just what he wants, so Prince Rhaegar can steal them as well.” Her father had refused to attend the Tourney of Harrenhal after Jaime Lannister had been stolen from him, and that night he turned heart and oaths from King Aerys. She remembered how she had sat in her window well past midnight watching the riders and ravens her father sent out, thinking of Brandon. If Prince Rhaegar had stolen her, would Brandon have ridden after her?

But Brandon was dead and dust now, dead on account of Rhaegar and Aerys. But that was past, she had to look forward, she had to do her duty to Riverrun. And now—would Rhaegar be a better king than his father? And if he was…would Riverrun survive long enough for it to matter? 

Her throat was dry at the thought, so she reached for a glass and poured herself a drink just as Ser Harys stormed into the tent, three men at his heels. Catelyn recognized them immediately and placed her cup on the table. They were her father’s bannermen, sons of Lord Walder Frey of the Twins.

“I see no reason why Riverrun must go to House Frey moreso than House Swyft,” Ser Harys said as he entered the tent. 

“A lord of the Riverlands should rule Riverrun,” Ser Emmon Frey replied indignantly. Catelyn remembered seeing him once at Riverrun with her father when she was just a girl, his wife Genna Lannister beside him. He spotted Catelyn and his eyes widened, making himself look like a drowned weasel. 

“Oh,” he finished stupidly. 

“Ser Emmon, Ser Stevron, Ser Ryman—my eldest son, Steffon,” Ser Harys gave a flourish. He introduced Dicky as well, then he turned to Catelyn, his voice smug, and said, “And my charge, by order of Lord Tywin himself. Lady Catelyn Tully, the heir to Riverrun.”

 _Edmure is alive, you loathsome fool,_ Catelyn thought furiously. _Alive, and far away from Tywin Lannister’s clutches._ Ser Harys took her by the hand and led her away from the table towards his guests. His hand was sweaty and fleshy, but she did not let any emotion cross her face.

Ser Stevron recovered first. “Lady Catelyn, of course, I could never forget such a lovely sight. It grieves me that we must meet again in such fortunes.” Ser Stevron was Lord Walder’s heir, and like his father, looked more like a weasel than a man. His son Ryman stood beside him, his small eyes blinking slowly.

Catelyn curtsied in reply as Steffon came up behind her and placed a mailed hand on her shoulder. The weight was oddly comforting. “Well met, my lords,” Steffon said jovially.

“As you can see, Riverrun need not go to a Riverlord,” Harys said told the Freys. Only to he who marries my hostage, his smile finished. Then he pointed to the squire who had been helping Steffon. “You, boy—invite Ser Gerion Lannister to feast with me for supper.”

“Ser Gerion?” Steffon asked as the squire scampered off. The weight of his mail fist was beginning to hurt. “What is going on? Is Aerys truly dead?”

“As good as dead,” Ser Harys replied. “Rhaegar Targaryen is king now, and Lord Tywin leaves tomorrow with five thousand to swear him fealty in King’s Landing.”

Catelyn felt Ser Steffon jerk back in shock just as she did. “Lord Tywin is abandoning the siege?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Five thousand is enough to storm Riverrun in four days time,” Ser Harys retorted.

It was all too fast for her. Five thousand men? Of course—Ser Gerion would lead the siege now, if Lord Tywin was leaving. If they were split across the three banks of Riverrun, her uncle could surely smash such a small force apart. He had to know—he had to return. She needed to find him, and bring him back to Riverrun before four days past. She needed to escape. How could she escape?

“House Frey will stay with the siege, just as you, Ser Harys,” Ser Stevron said. 

“And for dinner as well?” Harys asked. Catelyn’s heart pounded in her ears as she glanced between the two men. Lord Tywin was leaving Riverrun. What of her?

“Of course. If you want us to support Lady Catelyn’s claim to Riverrun, I will need to be wooed, just as Ser Gerion.”

“He is more than amenable. He seeks to take the castle without surrendering his brother’s life. You heard his wish as well as I, ser. My Steffon shall take Lady Catelyn to wed and once she’s clear with child, she returns to Riverrun to surrender it that her and the babe might live.”

Ser Emmon squawked, but Ser Stevron only smiled and said, “You may need a maester to check your hearing, friend. That indeed was his suggestion, but he said nothing of Ser Steffon.”

“Who else? He does not want her, and we all have wives at home—“

“My son is just as unwed as yours!” Emmon interrupted. “Tion, my third son.”

Stevron put up a hand to Emmon in placation. “Tion is just a boy, Em. It will take a man to rule Riverrun. Lord Hoster may be dead, but Riverrun will need a strong hand to bring the Blackfish to heel.”

A strong hand is hard to find, these days, and in the depth of her soul she knew no man would ever bring her uncle to heel, unless they cut off his head. Catelyn swallowed, her anger so deep her fingers tingled, alight with fury, as if itching to tear them all apart with her claws. To chop up her family like fish in a market, and barter over the parts… 

Ser Stevron looked to her then, and bowed his head politely. “Apologies, my lady. I pray Ser Brynden surrenders soon. He is a fine man.”

“The Blackfish is no concern of ours,” Steffon finally said. “Lady Catelyn has the strongest claim. If Ser Gerion supports it, she shall have the bigger army as well.”

“Ah,” Ser Stevron replied, turning to leave. “Well, if that is so, I suppose our support makes no matter—“

“But brother—“ Emmon began.

“Ser Stevron—pardon my boy—he misspeaks,” Ser Harys said quickly. “House Swyft always wishes for friends, especially ones so well connected among the riverlords.”

Ser Stevron paused. “Friends, Swyft? I had a hope we would be kin.”

And so the barter began in earnest. It seemed, like his father, Ser Stevron placed a great deal of importance on searching for eligible spouses for his family. Catelyn stood there in silence as Harys, Stevron, and Emmon agreed to several matches in exchange for supporting Steffon as Lord of Riverrun, including the marriage of her eldest son and daughter by Steffon, whenever she should have them. Steffon squeezed her shoulder comfortingly and gave her an encouraging smile. She would gladly marry Steffon and pledge her unborn children to marry two Freys if only that meant her family would live. But even if Lord Tywin allowed Ser Gerion to spare her, she had no doubts that any similar mercy would not be extended to Edmure or her uncle. Catelyn would never abide that. She looked up worryingly at Steffon, toasting Ser Stevron with adequate cheer, and realized that he would. What were Edmure and Uncle Brynden to him? Her breath caught in her throat.

Dusk began to fall and a cheerful mood fell over the men. Ser Harys poured them all more wine, even pouring a cup for her. Suddenly, to both his delight and horror, he seemed to realize that she would soon be his daughter, not his hostage. He looked at her from unwashed head to unwashed toe and decided that was not how he wanted her presented to Ser Gerion. He was about to call for a squire to fetch some water, when Ser Steffon spoke up, suggesting he take her to wash in the river.

Ser Ryman thumped him on the back with a guffaw, and Steffon gave a boyish grin. 

“You’ll catch your death in this cold,” Emmon said, shivering at the thought. _A bold one,_ Catelyn thought.

“Just a quick dip,” Steffon said, and Ryman laughed again. “It’s a good cure for too much wine, I’ve found.”

The two guards came with them to ensure no one would bother them, but to Catelyn’s surprise Harys did not order them to stay. He called for her chains to be brought, but Steffon said, “Father, please. If I’m to marry her, I don’t want to parade her in chains for all the camp to see. She won’t run off. If she wanted to, she would have last night.”

In the end, Harys acquiesced, though reluctantly. Steffon bid them farewell, took her hand chivalrously and led her out the tent. One step, then another, steps unshackled as Steffon led her towards the Trident, the guards following closely behind. She turned her head north and saw Riverrun, its west side golden in the setting sun. And the camp—the camp was alight with fires and noise as men raced about, trying to understand what was happening. Everywhere she looked she saw men sharpening swords and oiling bowstrings, loading supplies onto wagons, and searching for their belongings. Catelyn watched with surprise as men and boys rushed past her with little more than a glance. 

“You boys heading out?” Steffon called after two Crakehall men pulling two pack mules through the crowd. 

“Staying—we’re moving camp to near Whispering Wood!” One called back.

The camp had to be completely reorganized to continue the siege and let Lord Tywin leave with the five thousand men he wanted to bring to King’s Landing. Catelyn screwed her head around, trying to discern how many men would be left on each of the three banks. If it were evenly split, it would only be about 1,600 men. Uncle Brynden could come down from the north and drive one wedge against the river, then retreat before the others could blink. She had to get to her uncle. This was her only chance, the closest she had ever come to escaping—

A horse almost barreled into her, but at the last moment Ser Steffon picked her up and set her out of the way. He then proceeded to knock the head of the boy leading the horse, took her hand again, and led her on. 

“I did promise you a walk,” he said with a smile. “Though I did warn you it would be chaos.”

She stared around frantically. How could she possibly escape? There was nowhere she could walk unseen, and even if she escaped, she would be captured immediately without a horse. And even if by some miracle she got a horse, where would she go? Last she knew her uncle was near Fairmarket. Was she to just ride until she found him? 

The tents were thinning and the sky darkening before Catelyn realized they had reached the river. Ser Steffon led them along it, Catelyn’s feet growing cold and wet from the melting ice. It rushed loudly beside them, growing darker as the sun set. Live, it whispered, shimmering silver. She looked up and saw the moon. It was hardly a sliver, yet still it hung in the sky so contently, so unconcerned after her plight. She looked upriver and saw her home, as proud as the moon in the heavens above. A familiar batch of stars shone above it. The King’s Crown. She had seen it the other night, and now Prince Rhaegar had been crowned. Did the gods send it as a herald? Did the gods truly care enough about the worries of men to paint signs of strife and glory in the heavens?

She stopped. The river had called to her. Were the stars as well? It was the gods who gave the river strength; it was the gods who gave it a voice. Perhaps they had heard her prayers after all. Was this another sign from the gods? Rhaegar was king now, not Mad Aerys. With Aerys alive, there was no hope for any of them, wasn’t that what Ser Desmond had said? And Rhaegar…she did not know what kind of king he would be. Could she truly have faith in a dragon’s mercy? She looked back at the stars. Could she have faith in her gods?

Before the gods could reply cold metal pressed upon her face and pulled her away from the stars. His armored hands were cold but his mouth was warm. She stood there, her eyes open in shock, chilly water lapping at her heels. It was a long moment before he released her.

“I feel as though I have wandered into a dream,” he said. Perhaps he could see the sadness on her face for he said gently, “You are safe. You do not need to fear.”

Then, to her astonishment, he took a knee before her and took her hand in his and vowed, “I will do whatever I can to keep you safe, my lady. I will be a good husband to you. I swear it.”

For the first time she was glad of her muteness, for she did not trust herself to speak. _I am sorry, Steffon,_ she thought. Perhaps if she could have spoken, she could have convinced him to run away with her. Her heart pounded as she glanced at the guards, then she kicked off her shoes and dipped her toes into the cold water. She just needed to swim to the middle of the roaring river, and then it would whisk her away. Her winter dress was heavy, but she was a strong swimmer. She waded out further, but Steffon caught her arm. Catelyn could feel her heart pounding in her arm where he grabbed it. 

“You’ll have a hard time washing with that on,” he told her. She chattered her teeth and he laughed. “It’s not for long, and a fire will is waiting for us, my lady. Besides, I will keep you warm.”

He gave her a roguish grin and fiddled with the strap on his forearm to take off his armor. Shouts were coming from the camp as usual, saying, "Victory on the Trident" and "Casterly Rock" and "King Rhaegar!" She began to unlace her dress quickly, before she lost her courage. _I must save Riverrun. I am the only one who can._ Her fingers felt fat as sausages as she tried to quickly remove her heavy clothes. Soon she was in nothing but her shift. Steffon had only removed one gauntlet, as he had clearly been torn between watching her and undressing as fast as he could. _I must be strong,_ she told herself as she stepped into the cool waters of the river. _I am a Tully of Riverrun. This is my path. I must become it._

"My lady?" said Ser Gawen worriedly, turning. "My lady! Be careful the current!" he called as he saw her already deep into the river. 

She could feel the current grow stronger the farther she swam, its strong arms pulling her like a mother pulls a child into her embrace. She closed her eyes and smiled. 

“My lady!” Steffon yelped, crashing into the river frantically after her. She had never seen anything so gallant or so foolish. He began to wade through the shallows, his metal plate slowing him down. "Lady Catelyn," he yelled, "I will save you!" 

She had not made it far enough into the river to get away. She could still pretend that it was the current that took her, not her desire to escape, she reasoned. Ser Steffon would believe her. Her foot slipped and she found she could no longer touch the bed of the river. _No. This is my only chance._ She glanced east, but before she could do anything, Ser Steffon had grabbed her arm, his metal hand slicing her skin. She gasped painfully and wrenched her arm away.

"My lady, stop! Just take my hand! I will bring you back to safety," he insisted, grabbing at her.

She managed to free herself again and tried to swim away, but Ser Steffon's metal feet were planted on the bottom of the river, so it was easy for him to pull her back. "Stop struggling, I am here to rescue you," he said, irritated. 

"Then rescue me from Tywin Lannister!" she screeched as she struggled. 

The shock of her voice—her hoarse and raspy voice—caused Steffon to let her go. She pushed herself away from him.

"Lady Catelyn!" he spluttered, shocked, as water filled his mouth. He reached after her, but she kicked his hand away. “Why are you behaving like this?” he grunted in frustration, reaching after her. He struggled after her, the river pulling him under. She saw his blue eyes full of fear, and then they were gone. The camp surely was making noise, but Catelyn couldn't hear it. The river was roaring in her ears, and she could hear other things, the shouts of hundreds of men falling through ice…she swam towards the spot he had disappeared. "Ser Steffon!" she called, her voice cracking. 

A steel fist grabbed her ankle and dragged her under before she could even scream. The cold water nipped at her skin as she tried to shake the fist off. She could not breathe, she could not think. She opened her eyes and saw only deep blue, so blue it was black. But up, up above her, she could see the sky, the water distorting the colors of the setting sun. She tried to swim towards it, but she found she only sunk deeper. She kicked furiously, trying to rid herself of the weight. She clawed at the hand, her nails on steel. A thousand knives stabbed her chest. She kicked and punched and bit until finally, miraculously, the hand let go. She looked up, and could no longer see the sun, only black. Frantically, she looked below her, and all around, a silent scream spilling out of her mouth as she tried to figure which was sky and which was death. Something hit her knee and startled her. The fist, she thought, but it was only her own bubbles. _Air!_ She thought. She spun around and followed the rising air, kicking through the water as fast as she could. She tumbled around, spinning and whirling helplessly. She could taste wet clay and moss and even, strangely, mint tea. Finally, she broke through the surface of the Red Fork, gasping.

 _It called to me. The river called to me._ She had heard it. _Live,_ it had whispered. She smiled and drank the cold water as she swam, letting it surround her, fill her. She could have laughed for joy as the Trident pushed her along, hugging her and carrying her safely away like a mother swaddling a newborn child. She dove beneath the surface and spun, trying to feel every bit of water, to hug it, to thank it, to know it. It felt alive, not like the thousand voices she had heard before, but one. It felt like a god. It felt like an old friend. She kissed the surface, and then took a gulp. _I broke your chains, and you broke mine._

She looked towards the sky the river bore her quickly towards. Another familiar set of stars speckled the sky: the Crone’s Lantern. If that was not a sign, she did not know what was. From the lions jaws into the dragons mouth, but Catelyn Tully was unafraid. The crone was guiding her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally. (that's a finally I've finished this stupid chapter and FINALLY Catelyn has escaped). Next chapter, Elia. Hope you guys enjoyed it. Feel free to let me know in the comments characters or interactions you are excited to see--I might not have considered them and may want to include them!


	18. Elia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Love is poison. A sweet poison, yes, but it will kill you all the same.  
> Sansa IV, _A Clash of Kings_

“It is such a strange thing, Elia, to live so many lives.”

A silvery figure took shape before her with a smile as bright as the white that cloaked him. The world shone gold and silver in her dream, just as it had in life. An entire city, alight with celebration for her. The stones beneath her feet glittered as the walls of the Red Keep sang jubilation: our prince has taken himself a bride! 

“And how many lives have you lived, Arthur?” 

“Why, several. The babe I do not remember, the boy who played with you in the Water Gardens...and the man who became the Sword of the Morning I now see was still half a child. Even the man who took the white cloak is not the man I am today. And now, how strange it is, to have my lives woven back together, and see you here wed to Prince Rhaegar.”

Prince Rhaegar. Her prince, _hers_ , robed in the night sky and starlight. She could feel the tears on her cheeks as he sang before all the court, a song for her, his bride, the rising sun, his light.

“He will be easy to love, I think. It is as you say, Arthur. Though I’ve been wed an hour I can see…something familiar about him. As if he were already a dear friend.”

“He is a good man, and one day he will be a good king as well. He will need you in the days ahead, Princess Elia. He will need a kind and gentle wife to ease his burden. I do not doubt he will come to love you for it. He will be good to you, Elia,” he said earnestly, every inch of him full of assuredness, the way she remembered him as a boy.

“I know, Arthur. He has your eyes,” she told him simply, and those shimmering eyes smiled. “It is such a strange thing to live so many lives. You begin to see the same eyes in different people, and find old friends in new ones.” 

“This old friend cannot seem to escape you. From my liege’s daughter to his daughter-in-law…it seems the gods saw fit to always place me on a knee before you,” he bowed. When he raised his head, all laughter had gone from his eyes. She followed his gaze over her shoulder, but all she saw was darkness.

“They will be here before the month is out, and they will not come alone. The city must be in our grasp before they arrive.”

 _Arthur?_ Elia tried to open her eyes, but her eyelids were too heavy. A cool mist breezed over her face and shoulders. She could smell incense, and the smell of the city and the salt sea air. She tried to lift her head but her muscles refused to work. Her entire body throbbed dully, as if she had just been thrown from the top of the Red Keep. 

“We have ten thousand Dornishmen,” a voice replied. _Oberyn._ She blinked slowly, trying to waken her mind. _Where did Arthur go?_

She should say something to Oberyn; she should let him know she was awake. She needed to ask him where Arthur went. His voice was still there, somewhere below, somewhere…she tried to look for it, but Oberyn’s voice was louder. “Lords Tyrell and Lannister will not abandon their greed to pay homage to Rhaegar. Not fully. Five thousand Lannisters is still less than ten thousand last I checked, brother.” 

“Lord Tywin will not like that at all. Tyrell could bring a host of twenty thousand.” _Doran._ She wondered why her brothers were here. Was her mother here as well? It had been so long since she had seen them all together…

“You should have gone to the citadel, Doran. You would learn that zero by magnitude of twenty thousand is still zero,” Oberyn replied dismissively. “Lord Tywin is the greater threat. Elia told me once his gold is dwarfed by his pride. He cannot be king, she says, but he will make himself first among equals.”

Oberyn. She wanted to say his name, but her strength was fading. The light of the sun on her eyelids turned dark.

“Those sound like mother’s words,” her elder brother said, his voice far away. “Stay with her. I will deal with Rhaegar.”

And then she was alone. The night sky grew darker as the gods unrolled it like a cloth to wrap the earth. The darkness surrounded her, covering sky and earth and water. It was so thick she could reach out and touch it. She thought it would be cold, but it was warm and wet and thick, so thick she could drink it if she wanted. Suddenly, she saw something—a green shape taking form. It burnt through the darkness like fire burns through brush. 

She took a stumbling step backwards, but a strong hand grabbed her arm, pulling her upright. Her head snapped around. 

“Careful, child,” her uncle said, his eyes twinkling. She gave a nervous smile in return.

“Prince Rhaegar does not fear him, so you needn’t either,” Arthur told her, nodding at the wisp of green burning towards them. 

“I won’t,” she vowed. And then they were gone.

The wisp ran toward her, but she did not flee. Closer it came, faster and faster until suddenly it smashed into the earth beneath her feet. The ground opened its mouth and she fell through the darkness. Uncle! Arthur! 

She reached up for something to grab onto, but no one was there. The air grew hotter as she fell, the green wisp shot after her like a flash of lightening, trying to catch her. She spun desperately, her hair whipping all around her face. She saw the wisp take the form of a hand, then fade back to a spark. She reached out for it, unsure what would happen if it touched her. The closer it came, the greater her fear mounted. With a final spark it lunged out and grabbed her foot.

Elia screamed. The green hand burnt through her leg, boiling her blood and filling it with poison. She could see thick green liquid sweating out of her as the fire ran up her leg, filling her belly with bile and her lungs with smoke. Soon it was at her throat, and she was screaming even as it burned her voice to ash. It was in her mouth, in her eyes, pain like she had never felt before.

The thick darkness stuck at her skin, and suddenly she could feel her screaming in her ears. A voice was shouting, and a hand touched her arm. She threw it away, trying to free herself from the hot darkness.

“Elia, Elia, calm down, you were dreaming, you were dreaming,” a voice told her. She shook her head, gasping, aware of the painful throbbing in her legs. The voice kept saying things to her. Arthur? Uncle? She had a hard time listening to what he was saying. She could feel the green fire from her dream tearing through her.

Soon a hand was on her back and a drink upon her lips. Water. It was so cold that tears came to her eyes. She blinked rapidly, trying to see in the half-darkness. 

“Uncle?” she said, spilling water on herself.

“No, it’s me. Oberyn,” he said, leaning forward to help her drink. And so it was. Light from the moon illuminated his face in the darkness, the unmistakable face of her baby brother.

She shut her eyes, too tired to keep drinking. “You look like him. Sound like.”

“Is everything all right, Prince Oberyn? I heard screaming,” a new voice said. She knew this voice as well, though she could not remember from where. Her heart pounded in her chest, in her arms, in her head.

“Yes, all is well, Ser Jaime,” her brother responded.

Ser Jaime. She could see him perfectly, his green eyes like glass as he stood beside the Iron Throne. And beside him, high upon the barbed throne sat…sat…Elia’s eyes fluttered open. “Ser…Jaime?” she mumbled. 

“Your grace? Your grace?”

She opened her eyes to see the golden youth beside her bed. Just a boy, really. She remembered now. In the daylight he was a handsome youth, with emerald eyes as green as wildfire. _As wildfire._ In the darkness he was gray, from his cloak to his skin to his hair to his eyes. She reached out a hand to his face and found his skin was soft and cool to the touch. His skin grew pale in the moonlight and he glanced quickly to Oberyn. 

“What a handsome face,” she said curiously. His eyes were on hers now, and she could see the slightest touch of green, and something she had never seen before. She could not look away, not even after tears came to her eyes. “I don’t think I shall forget such a face.”

She was asleep before she hit the pillow. 

The next thing she knew, Oberyn was feeding her hot soup. She had a vague memory of him doing it before, but should not have known whether that had been hours, days, or years ago. Then Maester Caleotte came in and gave her a strong glass of wine and she slept a dreamless sleep.

The first thing she heard was the sea. Even over the din of the city she could hear the crashes of the waves upon the rocks of the shore and the squawking of the seagulls soaring above as they fought over food. She lay there for a while, listening to the sound and smelling the salt in the air. She could almost pretend she was home, lying in her bed in Sunspear, peacefully sleeping until Oberyn would jump on her bed to wake her up. 

She heard a noise, and realized she was not alone. Slowly, Elia opened her eyes. She was in her chambers in Maegor’s Holdfast. The balcony was open and wind from the sea fluttered through the silk curtains. The room looked different than she remembered. Her grand wardrobe was slightly closer to the balcony than last she recalled, and one of the chairs she got as a wedding present was missing. She heard a scratching noise, and looked to the left, trying to move her head as little as possible so as to not disturb the aching pain in the base of her skull.

A figure was hunched over the beautiful table Doran had gifted to her on her last nameday. Shiny black hair obstructed the man’s face as he wrote quickly. She watched him for a moment, wondering when he became a man, and if she had only just noticed it. He sighed, set down the pen, and stretched his hands. She saw that a thick bandage was wrapped around his left hand. He twitched in pain and balled his good hand into a fist.

“You’re hurt,” she said sluggishly.

Oberyn’s head jerked up in surprise. “You’re awake!” 

Before she could blink he was by her side. “Are you hungry?”

She shook her head. She sighed and shut her eyes. Her body felt so heavy. 

“Are you in pain?” he asked seriously. “Do you want more milk of the poppy?”

She shook her head again. “Cannot think…I want…” she opened her eyes and reached for his arm. As she wanted, he took it and helped her sit up. The effort threatened to cause her to pass out from exhaustion. She shut her eyes again.

When she opened them, Oberyn sat beside her, holding a cup of hot broth. 

“You need to eat to get strong again,” he told her, so she drank. When she was done, he took the cup with his damaged hand.

“You’re hurt,” she said again.

He gave a small laugh, and brushed her hair from her face. “You are unbelievable, Elia,” he said affectionately. 

When she continued to stare at him, he raised his bad hand and turned it for her to see. Beneath the cloth she could see the two outer fingers were missing. “It’s nothing, Elia. Certainly nothing for you to worry about.” 

Her mind was beginning to clear, and with the clarity came memories she would sooner forget. She forced herself to stay looking at him, and not let her eyes or mind wander. She occupied herself with the detail of his collar. The gold lace danced around his neck in the pattern of a raging sea. Within it were all manner of small intricate beasts that only a keen eye would notice. 

“Your grace? Queen Elia?”

Elia jumped. A servant stood there, holding a tray, looking expectant. _How long had she been in here?_ Elia wondered. She looked at the woman from head to toe. The woman glanced at Oberyn nervously, who took the cup from Elia’s hands gently and handed it to her. Elia watched her go dazedly. “Your grace…?”

"Myles Mooton handed Rhaegar a crown at Harrenhal, as did others," Oberyn said, his voice full of venom. He took his tender hand from hers and balled it into a fist. Hatred was etched into every line of his face, and his eyes were even worse. “He will pay. All of them. I will drag them to the deepest of the seven hells, Elia. Myles, Aerys, Rhaegar—“

“Don’t,” she breathed, looking away to hide her tears. “Don’t say his name.”

She did not want to hear his name. She did not want to think of him, to remember how she had trusted him, obeyed him, loved him. She did not want to think about what happened after. She felt as if she had been flayed raw and left alone on a hillside like an unloved, malformed child left to die by heat or cold or thirst. Against her better judgment, she looked down at her legs. Through the thin sheet she could see thick bandages wrapped around her legs. There was an emptiness where her left foot should have been, yet somehow she could still feel it throbbing in pain. Tears welled up in her eyes. _What had she done that the gods should punish her so? _She gave a rattling breath to try to calm herself and covered her face with her hand.__

__“Fetch the maester,” her brother told a servant. “Elia?”_ _

__Elia did not reply. She did not even trust herself to look at Oberyn. She could not bear to see the resolute anger in his eyes. It was the one thing Oberyn could never understand. How could he? He had never been wed or borne children. One look in his viper’s eyes and she knew he was set on revenge. Perhaps that was some weakness in her that she was not burning with rage. It was as if Aerys had burned it out of her and left her an empty shell. A sharp pain tore through her legs, and all she could think to do was cry. The realization made her tears fall even harder._ _

__“Leave me,” she choked through her tears. She wondered if he would leave angry and swear to pour wildfire down Aerys’s throat. He didn’t. He was still and quiet for so long she wondered if he had left, but then his lips were on her brow and his arms wrapped around her. She burrowed into his chest and wept, and for once, Oberyn kept his silence. He rubbed her back the way their mother would when they were young, and within an hour Elia had drifted off._ _

__Soft notes flittered through her mind like fireflies, flickering bright and dark. As the notes softened, so did the light as the bugs danced in tune. She smiled and jumped in to dance and felt the music pull her into the air and whirl her around endlessly. The notes danced by her, caressing her skin. It was a beautiful song, so beautiful she felt as if it had been written just for her, for what else could match her beating heart?_ _

__The fireflies swirled around her, leading her down to a bed of flowers. She lay down her head contentedly upon the grass, watching as the fireflies wrapped around the trees, causing the world in between to go dark. The trees flickered, and when Elia blinked they were candles, flickering in the cool night breeze._ _

__“Rhaegar,” she said breathlessly, for there he was. Tears of relief sprung to her eyes. He looked exactly as she last saw him, his long silver hair tucked behind one ear, his brows furrowing over eyes full of melancholy. And beautiful. He always looked beautiful. He lifted his cheek from her high harp to look at her._ _

__“I did not mean to wake you,” he said, setting down her harp. The last notes hung in the air, sad and unfinished, waiting for the triumph. His voice grew quiet. “I did not mean for a lot of things to happen.”_ _

__She stared at him for a long moment, the memories coming back even as she tried to forget. He watched her intently, as if waiting for what she might say._ _

__“This is a dream,” she sighed and laid back down. He was only ever in her dreams, and never in the waking._ _

__“A dream? Why would you dream something so full of grief?” His voice was slow and clear, like the hanging final note from his playing._ _

__“Are your dreams not full of grief, Rhaegar?” she said with a scornful laugh. “Dreams of song and Summerhall and sunless days hung over the world?”_ _

__“I would have you dream of spring, not this,” he replied sadly. He grew quiet. “Would that it were only a dream, my love.”_ _

__“My love,” she repeated dazedly. “How perfect. How...quaint.”_ _

__A sharp pain on her right thigh pierced through whatever armor the milk of the poppy gave. She grimaced and shut her eyes. She kept them closed long after the pain had left, hoping the world would vanish._ _

__"I never thought you loved me. When we wed, Ser Arthur thought you would come to one day, but...but I never thought so,” she admitted softly. She opened her eyes to look at him. “But I decided to love you anyway, and pray that would grant you peace of mind. I knew we were uneven in our affections. It was I who loved, and I alone."_ _

__His eyes were hard to look at, deep and endless, sometimes beautiful and sometimes frightening, like swimming in the vast ocean on a moonless night. She looked away and swallowed painfully. "I loved you, Rhaegar," she repeated slowly, confused. Her voice grew angrier as tears filled her eyes. "I loved you. And you forgot me."_ _

__Rhaegar had the grace to look ashamed. He turned his eyes downwards, his eyebrows creased as he stared at the floor in front of him. “My father...I never thought he would hurt you,” he said quietly, as if he still did not believe that his father had. Yet he did not deny it. He had forgotten her._ _

__“Do you remember the day you left?” She asked him. She could remember it perfectly, as clean and clear as a cut with a knife._ _

__He did not reply immediately, as if he sensed danger. “You saw me off, and Ser Lewyn.”_ _

__“No, at Dragonstone. I remember it perfectly,” she told him bitterly. “Four days. It was four days after Ashara left for Starfall. The maester said I could not bear another child, and I wished Ashara was there. I called for Arthur, but he was a poor substitute for his sister.”_ _

___I do not know your grief, princess. I have no children but the sons and daughters of those I serve. Hold onto your own children._ She could still remember his somber air. He had know, even then, what Rhaegar meant to do._ _

__“Did…did either of them protest?” Elia asked him, wondering why it mattered. “Did either of them beg you to stay?”_ _

__“The Kingsguard does not beg.” Rhaegar’s face was unreadable. “I knew whatever grief I caused you would bear with dignity. Like a queen.”_ _

__“Dignity?” her voice cracked. “You tossed me aside before half the realm. I was NAKED AND BURNING! Did I do it with enough fucking dignity?”_ _

__All her resolve broken, she began to sob. Her whole body shook as she bent over and wept, tears falling onto the bandages on her thighs. Once she began to cry, she found she could not stop. “I will never walk again,” she sobbed. “Am I so cruel a woman to deserve this? Was I so cruel to you?”_ _

__His eyes were misty, but he did not weep. She had never seen him cry, no more than she had seen him laugh. He stood up slowly and crossed her chamber to her side. He placed a tender hand on her face, wiping the tears off her cheek. The softness of his fingers surprised her._ _

__"Don't touch me," she gasped, pulling her head away._ _

__"Elia," he pleaded. She looked into his eyes, his beautiful, sorrowful, violet eyes, so full of remorse—_ _

__“Leave me. Leave me to die. Just as you did before,” she turned away from him._ _

__He just stood there quietly, refusing to go. That was his way. He never argued, no, that would be beneath him. Her mother always said Oberyn was like her father, who did as he wished, not as he was bid, but even Oberyn could be reasoned with. Rhaegar just listened patiently and then did what he had already decided to do. Once Rhaegar had made up his mind, there was nothing to say._ _

__And Rhaegar had made up his mind years ago._ _

__“That’s what you want, isn’t it?” she spat at him. “Me to die so you can marry your wolf bitch?”_ _

__“I never wanted this to happen!” Rhaegar said sharply. He never raised his voice. He only ever spoke calmly, beautifully, like a song about to be sung. Elia was so startled she stopped crying. “It was never my intention that anyone would get hurt.”_ _

__She stared at him a long moment. “You should go,” she said flatly. “You should just take your good intentions and go.”_ _

__He did not move immediately, and so Elia just laid back down and shut her eyes._ _

__“Drink your water, Elia. Pycelle will come check on you soon,” he told her, and then he was gone._ _

__Tears leaked from her eyes, tracing their way down her face slowly. As soon as the door shut, she began to cry in earnest until she had no more tears left. That did not stop her, so she sobbed without tears. Only when her head threatened to split into two did she reluctantly reach for the glass of water. Elia drank until the glass was empty and she fell back, exhausted. Waking mixed with sleeping, and the next thing she knew she was opening her eyes and wondering if Rhaegar had only ever been a dream._ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah yes, the chapter where Elia starts to come to terms with everyone who she thought would protect her and then they didn't, and the last person she expected to save her. And now we have got plot lines beginning to convene in the city of cities...
> 
> I like the idea of Arthur and Elia being childhood friends, not pseudo brothers like Ned and Robert, but more the way you might feel about your own childhood family friends, or your favorite cousin who you always see once a year. 
> 
> I know I mentioned it before but my tumblr is asbraveasrobb and I post edits for this under the tag #writ in blood. 
> 
> And to everyone who keeps leaving me nice comments--thank you!!! It warms my little heart. Keeps me pumped. I know everyone is eager to see Lyanna and/or Benjen (Starks man, gotta love 'em) and I am eager too. I actually already have three Lyanna chapters essentially written but they aren't due yet in my rough outline--but I am seeing if things can be shifted around. It just seems a cryin shame to have 18 chapters of a Robert's Rebellion fic and still no Lyanna.


	19. Benjen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Winter is coming, warned the Stark words, and truly it had come for them with a vengeance.  
> Tyrion VII, _A Storm of Swords_

The gods watched him as he knelt in the snow at their feet, just as he had knelt to pray for Brandon’s safety, and then his father’s, and then Ned’s. Those days he offered prayers, but now he offered tears, hot tears that burned his cheeks. He shut his eyes and savored the pain. The Old Gods were cruel as winter and Ben imagined they thanked him for his gift.

He had knelt so long his furs were wet with snow and he had started to shiver, but Benjen had no intention of returning to his warm bed in Winterfell. Why should he rest in warmth when his brothers could not? _Why?_ He grit his teeth and punched the hard ice before him. Its crack echoed through the empty godswood, but Benjen still lifted his head to check if anyone had heard. It was an old habit, he realized, from when he and Lyanna practiced fighting with sticks. They had played other things in the godswood, swimming and wrestling and climbing and acting out all of Old Nan’s stories. Sometimes Brandon would find them and before they could even beg him to take them riding, he would pick Benjen up and toss him into the hot springs. Brandon said it was the quickest way for him to learn to swim, and Benjen supposed he had been right. Sometimes Lyanna protested, so Brandon would toss her in as well. Only once had they managed to get Brandon soaked, and it had been a sacrificial battle plan he and Lyanna devised that ended with them all walking dripping and laughing back to their rooms.

Benjen watched his breath turn to cold mist before him. He could see a tear falling onto the ice, so he punched it again. He felt his knuckles crack and begin to bleed, so he hit again, this time with both hands. He liked the pain in his fist. It was easy to trace. It felt right, somehow. He punched as hard as he could, again and again until he had broken the ice and hit snow and then the hard earth. He hit until he was gasping for breath, the cold air stabbing at his lungs like a thousand little knives. 

_How could you let this happen?_ Benjen wanted to yell at his gods, but the words caught in his throat. _The old gods are hard and cruel as winter,_ his father had told him once. _You do not make demands of them._ He looked into the weeping eyes of the heart tree and wondered if they wept for his father and brothers. 

As if in reply, the wind rustled the great heart tree, sending the red leaves into the air. The ice glittered as the first rays of sunlight crept over the castle walls. In the morning light, Benjen followed one of the leaves as it floated on the wind towards him. It landed on the ice beside him, shining in the sunlight like a bloody hand. Benjen took off one of his gloves and observed his bleeding knuckles before laying his own hand flat on the ice beside the leaf.

“Benjen,” he heard faintly above the sound of the rustling leaves. He jerked, leaving his own bloody handprint. He looked to the heart tree, waiting, wishing—

“Benjen!” the voice was louder this time. “Lord Benjen!”

Disappointed, Benjen stood up. For a moment he considered ignoring the voice and hiding for a few more hours. But he was the Stark in Winterfell, he told himself as he put back on his glove. He had promised his father he would be, and then Ned as well, so he wiped his face and headed back to Winterfell. 

Once he had washed up and warmed off, he dressed slowly. He could hear the castle slowly beginning to rise. The North was cold and sparse during winter, but Winterfell was warm and full and getting fuller. Smallfolk had flocked to winter town during late autumn, but now great lords and ladies were coming to Winterfell too, now that Ned was dead. Benjen had watched this happen before. When father died, Ned had returned to Winterfell to raise the banners and bend the lords to his will. Now it was his turn. 

He dressed richly, in a surcoat of dark grey wool with silver buttons. After he had laced up his boots he reached for his sword, pausing in midair. ‘Justice’ he had named it, but Lyanna said that was stupid so he didn’t call it anything. A man would wear a sword, but he wasn’t a man grown, no matter how much he tried. He was just a boy with sword playing at being a lord. 

He reached for the sword and unsheathed it. It was beautiful, and even just holding it made him fill with warmth at the memory of its gifting. His father had given him the sword at dinner and he had been so excited he had forgotten about everything else. Before he knew it, Lyanna had asked for a sword as well, and their father had refused. 

“Please, father,” Lyanna had begged. “I could practice with Ben. I won’t get hurt. I swear it. We fight with sticks and I beat him every time. I won’t get hurt, I won’t.”

Benjen remembered all too well the feeling of shame and anger as his father turned to him and asked, “Is this true?” 

But Brandon and Ned would never be beaten by Lyanna, so all he said was, “No, father.”

“Liar!” Lyanna yelled at him, pushing him out of his chair before he could blink.

“Lyanna,” his father said sharply. “That is enough. Your mother never wore a sword. Fighting is no business for a lady, nor any of this temper.” 

Once he had sent Lyanna to her room, he turned to Benjen and said tersely, “Benjen, a brother’s duty to his sister is to protect her, not beat her with sticks. I want no more of this fighting.”

The next few days Lyanna had refused to talk to him, and every time she saw him her eyes were only a fierce glare before she stalked off. He decided the only way to talk to her would be to follow her until she yielded. She finally got so annoyed with him she went to the stable and saddled her horse, thinking that riding would deter him. How wrong she had been. She was a better rider than he, so he spent an entire mile yelling his apologies to her back. It was only once they reached the wolfswood did she stop to lead her horse to a stream. 

“I’m sorry, Lya,” he said earnestly. “Do you…do you hate me?”

She turned to look at him then with a sad sigh. “Oh Ben. I could never hate you.” She narrowed her eyes and added, “Even if you are a stupid liar.” 

“I’m sorry,” he said again. She dismounted, and he followed suit. 

She stood by the stream, rubbing her mare’s neck while she drank. “It’s just not fair. Brandon gets to do everything because he is heir, but now you get to also, even though I’m older. If I was Lord of Wintefell, then I could have a sword. I could have anything,” she said yearningly. “If you were Lord of Winterfell, would you let me have a sword?”

He nodded fervently.

She gave a sly smile. “Even though I’d beat you?”

“Would not!” 

She shoved him backwards and he slipped on a wet rock and fell into the stream with a splash. When he looked up, Lyanna stood over him triumphantly, her hands on her hips. “Would too,” she told him. 

The memory made him somehow feel wistful, warm, and foolish all at once. All they had wanted was to make things fair and right. How did it all get so confused? The sword pressed heavy on his hand, weighing his arm down. He sheathed the sword and set it back down. With a deep breath he rubbed his eyes on the back of his hand. He stared at the sword a long while. Then, he put on his lord’s face and went to find Maester Walys. 

The smell of baking bread greeted him as he walked down the steps from his chambers. Once, he would have bounded down and dashed straight for the kitchen to sample whatever the cook had come up with. But like so much else, it had been a childish thing, and winter was the time for childish things to be put behind. Ned had told him as much on the day he marched south. 

“I know you are only three-and-ten, and not a man grown. I cannot ask you to be a man, but I will ask you to be a Stark. Your duty is here. Should something happen to me, you are the Stark in Winterfell,” his brother had told him before the heart tree. 

_This is all wrong,_ he thought as he walked into his father’s solar. _This is father’s place, and Brandon’s at his side. Not mine._ Ser Rodrik was there as well, of course, pulling at his whiskers that had just begun to grey. Maester Luwin helped Maester Walys into a chair. Upon the table sat a great wooden cage holding a white raven. It cawed knowingly as soon as he entered the room. Benjen greeted the three men politely in the same manner his father would before taking his seat. He saw eyes dart to his battered knuckles, but no comments were made.

“As you can see, my lord, a white raven from the citadel. This winter is finally at an end,” Maester Walys said, his jowls shaking dramatically.

“That is good news,” Benjen replied stiffly. The three men murmured in agreement. Winterfell still had a fair bit of food from the harvest, not to mention from the glass gardens, so they had not been forced to start strict rationing. They had even sent shipments to Deepwood Motte after a bad beetle infestation and a large fire had destroyed much of their stored food. For a brief moment he wondered if winter ending was _not_ good news. Men might want to go home, plant new crops, and see how their families faired during winter. 

“How little good news we have on these dark days,” Maester Walys said gravely. He reached a slightly shaking hand into his sleeve and pulled out two letters. _Dark wings, dark words,_ Benjen thought. “Two letters came…one from Lord Arryn, one from Howland Reed.”

Benjen reached for the letter from Howland Reed and opened it quickly. He squinted, trying to read the hastily written scrawl. Benjen had only read a few words before his heart dropped. “The ironborn have taken Flint’s Finger?”

“Rodrik Greyjoy leads the command,” Ser Rodrik Cassel said gruffly. “A grandson of Lord Quellon. He’s a young man, hot blooded and tempestuous. Lord Glover and Lord Reed will have no trouble driving him and the rest out once the army is through the neck.”

Benjen turned back to the letter. Lord Reed was currently leading the remnants of Ned’s army through the neck. 

“That’s not all, my lord,” Maester Walys said. “Lord Flint and his two sons died on the Trident, as you remember. His daughter lives, and by rights is Lady of Flint’s Finger. When Rodrik Greyjoy took the castle, his took her to wife. He is Lord of Flint’s Finger now, by more than right of conquest.”

Benjen clenched his fist. “Vows at swordpoint are no vows at all.”

“Even still, my lord,” Maester Walys said, giving a great hacking cough before continuing. “He has a legal right that might prove difficult to dispute.”

“Then he must die,” Benjen said immediately. Ser Rodrik gave an approving nod. “When he is dead and her rights secure, then she can marry as she chooses,” he said, thinking of Lyanna. 

“It would prove best if you choose, my lord,” Maester Walys said.

Benjen paused. He glanced from Maester Walys to Maester Luwin to Ser Rodrik. “Me?”

“Yes, my lord,” Maester Walys said. “Her cousin Jason took control of her father’s men when Lord Flint died. When these lords have freed her from the ironborn, they will expect a reward. Jason has a strong claim and will have rescued her. It is best they wed, else he may try to come into lordship through nefarious means.”

“She might not like her cousin,” Benjen said. “I won’t force her.”

Maester Walys sighed loudly. “My lord, unless some ill befalls him, Jason Flint will marry her once her husband loses his head.”

 _If you were Lord of Winterfell, would you let me have a sword?_ Lyanna had asked him. “I’m Lord of Winterfell,” he said as sternly as he could. “And I say Lady Flint can wed a man of her choosing. But no one will wed her without my consent. I forbid it.”

Maester Walys started to say something, but he fell into a coughing fit. Maester Luwin quickly gave him water to drink. When Maester Walys could finally speak, he said hoarsely, “My lord, beg pardons. But you cannot risk issuing such a command. Your father could have forbidden it, and maybe your brother Brandon. But you are young, and new to command.”

Benjen burned with anger as Maester Walys fell into another coughing fit. “Young I may be, but the blood of the Starks flows through my veins, Maester.”

“My lord,” Maester Luwin said calmly. Benjen looked to him curiously. He hardly ever spoke, as he had only come to Winterfell to help Maester Walys with his duties. ”Should Jason Flint refuse you, you do not have the strength to punish him. Then all your lords would know not to fear your command. You must learn to bend them to your will, just as your father did.”

“And this is the way,” Benjen said slowly, understanding. “I must send word back to Jason Flint and tell him to wed his cousin, so when he does, it gives strength to my command?”

Maester Walys nodded. “You were always a quick boy, my lord. Methinks you will be a good Lord of Winterfell.”

Benjen considered. He wondered if this truly was the way to earn the respect of his lords. It seemed so false, to give orders to a man to do what he had already decided. He couldn’t remember when father told Brandon he was to marry Catelyn Tully, but he remembered Lyanna’s face perfectly when she learned of her betrothal to Robert Baratheon. He had tried to make that right, but he had only gotten his father killed. _Let Lady Flint want to wed her cousin,_ he prayed. Then he gave a nod. 

“I will send a letter to Howland Reed to let him know your wish,” Maester Walys said, nodding at Maester Luwin to grab paper and ink. 

“And the movements of the ironborn,” Rodrik Cassel interjected. “Lord Benjen, Lady Dustin arrived late last night. Balon Greyjoy took longships upriver to Barrowton and set the wooden city on fire. She and many others escaped and now seek your refuge.”

“They shall have it,” Benjen said immediately. This he was sure of. “And justice. With the lords gathering in Winterfell, there must be 200 men eager to protect their homeland. Ser Rodrik, take a force to Barrowton to scout if the ironborn have left. If they have not, march east and meet Howland Reed to drive the ironborn from the coast. Maester Luwin, you must send warnings to the Rills, Stony Shore, Deepwood Motte—every seat along the coast to warn them of the ironborn.”

Benjen turned back to the letter. Lord Howland’s scrawl was easier to read now. _I was with your brother when he fell. He fought well and bravely, and died with honor._ Benjen blinked, but he found his tears were dry and his face set. _Lord Dustin and I faced the Red Viper when Lord Eddard fell. I left with your brother’s body and Lord Dustin with a poisoned cut that took him before the sun had set. The dornishman left with—_

Benjen swallowed. _Ice._ His father’s sword. He had lost everything, but somehow the loss still hurt. It was as if Winterfell itself had been stolen and turned to rubble, its godswood burned, its cold crypts turned to dust. The thought of Ice being wielded by a man besides his father boiled his blood. He remembered Prince Oberyn from Lord Whent’s tourney as he had been among the knights Benjen had made note to watch to see if Brandon was better. The dornishman had unhorsed many knights, including the last Whent in the tourney, Ser Oswell of the Kingsguard. But he lost to Ser Arthur Dayne after six tilts, though he never was unhorsed. Benjen recalled the look of fury at his defeat and the pained expression when he conceded. Though just hours later Benjen had seen him drunk and laughing with Ser Arthur, one hand on his shoulder the way Brandon did when he was happy. A good knight, perhaps, but what sort of man goes to battle with a poisoned blade and steals a family heirloom? 

“Thank Lord Howland for my brother’s bones,” Benjen said finally.

And now…what to do about Rhaegar, he thought. He could see him perfectly in his mind’s eye, tall and lean and strong, with high cheekbones and indigo eyes. He had hoped Rhaegar would send something now that all news pointed to him being named king. _You mustn’t tell anyone,_ Lyanna had made him swear as she packed her horse. _Then father will blame you. I’m the one who deserves his anger._

When he learned of Brandon’s imprisonment, he hoped that Rhaegar would return to King’s Landing and explain everything to his father. But Rhaegar had not returned. When he learned of Brandon’s and his father’s death, he prayed Rhaegar would return to cut off Mad Aerys’s head and make amends to Jon Arryn. But Rhaegar had not returned. When Ned marched south, he begged the gods for Rhaegar to return before it came to war. And Rhaegar had returned at the head of an army.

Without Lyanna. 

When Benjen had learned the Prince of Dragonstone had taken the field, he had cut all love for Rhaegar Targaryen from his heart. If Lyanna was alive, she would have torn off Rhaegar’s head once she learned of Brandon’s death. She would have killed him. Rhaegar would have locked her away somewhere…or killed her, just like his father killed Brandon.

Benjen took a deep breath. “And Lord Arryn?”

“He shares your grief, and extends a hand of friendship, though your houses are no longer bound in marriage,” Maester Walys said, handing Benjen the letter.

Benjen took the note slowly. “Ned married Lord Hoster’s daughter in Brandon’s place. Am I…am I to take Ned’s place now?”

He swallowed tentatively. He didn’t much like the idea of ruling in his brothers’ place, much less marrying Ned’s widow.

“Your brother Ned took Brandon’s place to keep the alliance alive,” Maester Walys said, rubbing the loose skin on the backs of his hands. “Lord Hoster is dead, his army fled, and Riverrun under siege. You will find nothing of value south of Moat Cailin—“

“Lord Hoster may be dead, but Ser Brynden lives with force large enough to be of use,” Ser Rodrik countered. “The riverlords that scattered he will raise again.”

“Even if that is true,” Maester Walys said, raising his voice, “Defending the North is our top priority. We cannot do that by marching south again.”

“Moat Cailin is well garrisoned. Once the ironborn are driven out, we must send our forces south again to meet King Rhaegar in the field,” Ser Rodrik barked in retort. “If we aid the Riverlords, they will join us. This is the only path of honor. It would be an honorable choice to wed Lord Tully’s daughter, my Lord.”

Benjen looked down at the letter to give him time to think. The siege of Riverrun weighed on his heart just as the news of Lady Flint’s capture and forced marriage. He hated the idea that something like that would happen to anyone, much less his brother’s widow. He did not know her—he had never even met her—but she had been a Stark, if only for a season. 

“My lord, even if you decide to march south, Riverrun will fall long before you arrive,” Maester Walys said gravely. “It is best to save your hand in marriage. Let the lords fight amongst themselves to earn your favor so you might make their daughter a Stark. That gives you time to establish your rule and bring any ambitious lords to heel.”

“Our greatest concerns are the ironborn attacking from the west and Rhaegar attacking from the south,” Benjen said after a moment. “Moat Cailin is well fortified against Rhaegar, but until the ironborn are destroyed, I will not march our armies south.”

“As you say, my lord,” Ser Rodrik nodded. 

Benjen turned back to the letter. Lord Arryn had turned his army back home, and planned to raise more men once his army was behind the Bloody Gate, he learned.

“Another army?” Benjen wondered. Lord Jon still led a sizeable force, and with reinforcements…perhaps the war was not lost. “Where does he mean to go? Riverrun?”

“Perhaps,” Ser Rodrik said. “One thing is certain, Lord Benjen. He does not mean to surrender.”

A sudden draft made the hair on the back of his neck stand up. 

“King Aerys broke his oaths, and many feel they do not owe him fealty,” Maester Walys explained. 

“I know,” Benjen replied sharply. Ned had said just as much when he had come home to raise the banners.

“Lord Robert had the best claim to the Iron Throne among the rebels, but now whatever remains of his army has no leader, and the alliance lacks the strength to usurp Rhaegar and put Stannis Baratheon in his place,” Maester Walys said, wiping sweat from his forehead. “King Aerys might be dead, but his crimes are not. And now, lords come down from the north and up from the south to Winterfell. They do not come all this way in winter for a feast and a hot bath, my lord.”

Benjen looked at old Maester Walys solemnly, listening carefully to every word. 

Maester Walys face softened. “I know you did not ask for this, but you must be prepared. You are Lord of Winterfell now, Benjen, but with your brother’s death they may want you to be more.”

 _More?_ He didn’t even want to be Lord of Winterfell, much less more.

“Do you understand, my lord?” Maester Walys asked.

“Yes,” Benjen replied. Ned had marched south to oust House Targaryen from the Iron Throne and to bring Lyanna home. When he died on the Trident, that dream died with him. Robert Baratheon and Hoster Tully were dead, and whatever was left of their lands would soon be stripped away from them. Yet the North could endure behind Moat Cailin, just as Jon Arryn could behind the Bloody Gate. “A king.”

_King Benjen of House Stark, the first of his name. The last of his line._

“And if I do not want to be king?” he asked, forcing his voice to remain even.

“Surrender to Rhaegar and face your fate, whatever that means. He may be more merciful than his father, or more treacherous,” the maester said. 

“Your lords will not like it,” Ser Rodrik warned.

“No,” the old maester agreed. “No, they will not. They will burn to avenge your father even when hope is lost.”

Benjen looked to his maester. “Is hope lost, Maester Walys?”

“There is a Stark in Winterfell,” was all he said in reply.

Benjen nodded curtly. _I do not want to be a king,_ he might have said, but that would not do. He was playing his father’s part now—a lord’s part—and lords do not weep or whine. 

“Send a letter to Jon Arryn, and tell him I accept his friendship in full, and thank him for the honor he had to defy King Aerys for Ned’s sake. Then send a letter to King’s Landing,” Benjen said resolutely. “By raven. No envoys. Father and Brandon’s bones must be returned to Winterfell, as well as the bones of all their companions. Ice will be returned to me as well. I want Lyanna returned safe, if she is still alive. If she is not, her bones must be sent, as well as the head of her killer. And finally, I want the head of his father King Aerys as compensation for my own. He will give me these in full, and only then will I talk to Rhaegar about peace.” 

It was not until he was alone in the godswood did he take off his lord’s face. He plopped down onto the snow and sat, exhausted. How had his father ruled Winterfell for so long? With a strong hand and a stern face, Benjen thought. He looked up at the dense canopy overhead covered with snow and ice. _Winterfell was in the godswood,_ his father once said. He used to come here to clean Ice, Benjen remembered. But Ice was lost, just as his father was. 

The thought of his father brought a lump to his throat. Benjen had spent the entirety of his life chasing after Brandon and Ned and Lyanna, trying desperately to prove that he wasn’t “Baby Ben” like they called him. Brandon oft would be gone in the Rills and Ned in the Eyrie, but not Lyanna. They had done everything together and then suddenly she had gone too, and he was left before his father alone.

“The crown prince comes and snatches Lyanna from right under your nose, and what were you doing? Sleeping?” His father demanded once he returned to Winterfell.

 _Snatched?_ Benjen forced himself to keep his face neutral. He had promised Lyanna not to take any of the blame. But that had been before Brandon was imprisoned…

“Wolf’s blood, the pair of them,” his father spat. “They’ll be the death of me. I make Lyanna a good match and what does she do? She throws it in my face. And Brandon! Now I have to talk _reason_ to Mad Aerys.”

“Father,” Benjen said, trying not to falter under his father’s gaze. “There…there was a mistake. It wasn’t…like Brandon thought.”

His father narrowed his eyes. “You knew your sister meant to run off?”

Benjen swallowed, but could not bring himself to speak. With a loud smack his father cuffed him across the ear. Tears came to his eyes, though not from pain.

“What did you think, Benjen? She’s my daughter and she will marry whom I choose. That is my place as her father _and_ her lord. Now, Rhaegar Targaryen thinks because he is prince, my rights mean nothing to him, and he can take my daughter as he pleases. No,” his father shook his head. “No. Winter is coming, and with your mother dead, you must be the Stark in Winterfell. It’s time to grow up, Ben.”

Benjen scratched at the ice and snow and dirt before him with a stick. “I know I didn’t make you proud, but…I tried to do as you would have done,” he said aloud, his voice breaking.

“My lord?” 

Benjen jerked his head up in surprise. He had not heard her arrive. She wore a dress of thick black wool trimmed with a deep red and a fine black cloak with a silver pin in the shape of a crown. She looked young, but older than he, perhaps Ned’s age. She wore her hair in a long brown braid pulled over her shoulder. And she was very, very pretty. Benjen quickly wiped his eyes and stood up. 

“Barbrey Dustin,” she introduced herself. 

“I…were you looking for me?”

“No, my lord, I came to pray,” she looked toward the heart tree. Then she gave a small smile and asked, “Why? Were you hiding, my lord?”

“No!” he said quickly. He didn’t want her to think he was a child hiding from his duty. “I was just praying too.”

“Might I join you?” She gestured to the snowy bank where he had been sitting.

He nodded ardently and sat down beside her. “What were you praying for?” she whispered, as if someone might hear.

“Wisdom, I suppose,” he said. _Strength. Absolution._ “And you?”

“The same,” she smiled gently, and he returned it. 

They sat there for a long moment. _It’s time to grow up, Ben._ “Lady Barbrey,” he began carefully. “There was a raven this morning. Lord William…he is dead, my lady. From a poisoned wound. I am sorry.”

She regarded him carefully, as if measuring him up. Finally she replied, “Yes. Yes, I know. I got word right before the ironborn came.”

She inhaled, and Benjen knew she was trying not to cry. “He died trying to save my brother,” he said fervently. “That makes him as a brother to me. He was loyal and honorable to the end. I will not forget that. I’ve ordered men to retake Barrowton. You and your people will be safe here for as long as you wish.”

She took his hand in hers and squeezed it. “Thank you, Lord Stark.”

He felt a rush of pride when she took his hand, quickly followed by shame at the feeling. “I’m not Lord Stark,” he said quietly, taking his hand back. He felt the tears well up in his eyes before he could stop them and he looked away pointedly. He could feel his face flush. _Lords don’t cry,_ he told himself furiously. _Lords and men and wolves don’t cry._ His tears didn’t listen. 

He felt her gloved hand on his cheek, turning him towards her. She was so close to him, he realized as his heart thumped hard against his chest. He looked at her face, nervous as to what she would think, what she would say, when suddenly she pulled him close and hugged him. 

Her arms were strong and sure and safe, and though he could not remember it, he imagined his mother’s hugs felt the same. He could see his breath turn to ice before his eyes, but she was warm and the smell of her comforted him. Before he knew it he was Baby Ben crying his eyes out, but Lady Barbrey just held him in her arms. 

After awhile the tears subsided. No part of him wanted to let go of her, the smell of her or the feel of her bosom pressed against his chest, but he drew away from her all the same.

“Sorry…I mean…thank you,” he muttered, glancing up at her. Her cheeks were red with cold.

She turned to look back the way she had come. “We should return back to the castle, my lord.”

“I think I’ll stay here a bit longer,” he replied, wiping his nose.

“The lords will have started to break their fast.”

“I don’t care,” he said monotonously, lying back in the snow. “Let them.”

A handful of cold snow landed right on his face. He spluttered and sat up. He was shocked to find Lady Barbrey already standing. 

“Enough,” she said sharply. “We have all lost men on the trident, not just you. Do not dishonor your lords by missing your own feast. Are you Lord Stark or not?”

He stared at her for a long moment, startled by her boldness. It reminded him of Lyanna. _I don't want them here,_ he might have said. But he was the Stark in Winterfell now. They had called Rhaegar the last dragon, but that was not true. But he was the last. “Yes,” he said firmly. “I am Lord Stark.”

She reached out a hand to help him up out of the snow. Once he was standing, she brushed the snow off his shoulders and face. When she was done, she swooped down and kissed him gently on each cheek. Benjen felt his cheeks burn as she pulled away.

“Then come, Lord Stark,” she said, taking his arm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So obviously I went with that Benjen knew about Lyanna and Rhaegar, since he seems to know in AGOT when he talks to Jon. 
> 
> Decided to go with Rickard guessing Lyanna ran off with Rhaegar, because a) in patriarchal westeros whether she ran away or not he is going to blame rhaegar because although he loves Lyanna she is "property" (think of Hoster Tully aborting Lysa's baby because he thinks that is what is good for her and being furious at LF) and b) whether she ran away or not doesnt really matter to him at that point, or anybody. Aerys had already imprisoned Brandon. Sending Aerys a letter saying "oops total misunderstanding i know brandon called for rhaegar's death but he was just being hotheaded lol" is not gonna fix anything. it was too late; the ram had touched the wall. 
> 
> As for Barbrey, if you've read ADWD you probably have a guess as to what she wants.


	20. Doran

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It all goes back and back, Tyrion thought, to our mothers and fathers and theirs before them. We are puppets dancing on the strings of those who came before us, and one day our own children will take up our strings and dance on in our steads.  
> Tyrion X, _A Storm of Swords_

He thought of his Ser Arthur Dayne the Sword of the Morning, kneeling before Aerys in his mother’s court as Ser Gerold Hightower placed a white cloak upon his shoulders. Doran had been a young man then, his heart filled with the prospect of Mellario’s arrival. Dayne had been even younger, barefaced and filled with prospects of his own—knighthood and glory. Honoring his mother with a Dornish appointment to the Kingsguard had not been magnanimous enough for Aerys, though. Doran had never seen a king before, and had not expected one so eager to please his vassals that he dealt out gifts and empty promises faster than greedy men could take them. “I will make these Dornish deserts bloom,” Aerys had told his mother. Aerys had been weak-willed and charming, that had been clear to him. But harmless. _Should mother have known?_

He thought of Rhaegar, travelling to Sunspear to meet Elia. How at odds he was with his father, Doran remembered thinking. He did not loose words meaninglessly and let them pierce where they may. He was pensive and patient, and Doran had met few other men like that. When the betrothal was arranged, Rhaegar himself fastened the white cloak to his uncle’s shoulders. _Should uncle have known?_

_Should I have known?_

A knock rang through the room and Doran Martell looked up from the book he had not been reading. A small hand grabbed at his pants as the captain let himself in. Doran looked down at Rhaenys who had abandoned her wooden blocks to cling to his leg. He could feel her shaking as he placed a hand on her head.

“The queen wishes to see you,” Hotah said, then he excused himself.

Rhaenys watched the Norvoshi leave warily. She looked up at Doran with wide eyes. Dark eyes, like Elia’s, with just the slightest purple tinge. 

Doran lifted Rhaenys up into his arms. “Do you hear that? Your mother is awake. Do you want to see her?”

Rhaenys twisted her long hair around her fingers and gave a small nod.

“Yes?”

She looked up this time and nodded more vigorously. He couldn’t help but smile. She was so sweet, so small, so fragile. She wore a dress fit for a queen shrunk down to size, and she didn’t seem to care a fig about it. She leaned her head against his chest and suddenly all his worries seemed both insignificant and terribly frightening, knowing it all revolved around her now too. He inhaled the clean smell of her hair, not just clean but fresh and young, just as she was still pure and innocent from the horrors of the world around. 

Almost. She did not see her mother burning, or know that her grandfather had tried to kill her, but she knew enough to be frightened. Doran did not know that when he pulled her out from under her mother’s bed and took her in his arms she would never want to let go. She played at his feet when he worked, climbed into his lap when he ate, slept in his bed, and cried whenever anyone tried to touch her. She could not discern between stranger and threat, and King’s Landing was full of strangers now. Even Rhaegar she did not know. He could not deny the sweet vindication of watching Rhaegar attempt to take her from his own arms. She had screamed and squirmed as she reached for Doran to save her. _Let her always remember this,_ he had thought. _Let her always remember it was I who saved her, not Rhaegar._ She was Elia’s child, more than Rhaegar’s, he decided. _Let her grow to hate him._

Perhaps he should mind, he thought as he made his way from the Maidenvault to Maegor’s Holdfast. Yet he did not have the heart or desire to force her into maturity. The warmth of her made him think of Arianne. Soon she would be too big to carry this way. It made him wish for another child, a daughter he could hold like this and protect. He thought of Mellario when he last saw her, angry tears in her eyes. It was a fool’s dream. All of it. _Doran Nymeros Martell, Prince of Fools._

Oberyn had claimed grand chambers in Maegor’s Holdfast to be near to Elia, but Doran moved into the Maidenvault with the rest of the Dornish lords. Oberyn scarce left Elia’s side since he pulled her from the pyre. The effort melted the flesh on two of his fingers into his gauntlets, and the metal did not turn to ash like Elia’s dress had. The process took a maester, a blacksmith, and a lot of gruesome trouble that eventually ended with half of his brother’s hand hacked off by a cleaver. Another grievance to lie at Aerys’s feet, Doran supposed. At this rate he might begin to lose count.

And Aerys…Doran and Oberyn had left Rhaegar to deal with Aerys on his own, and that had ended with Aerys imprisoned in a plush chamber and those on the battlements with him a head shorter. His councilors were removed from their offices—something he and Oberyn both felt far to clement. Queen Rhaella was in her own sort of imprisonment as she awaited the birth of her child. It was said she fell into a hysteric laughing fit when a nurse told her Rhaegar had usurped her husband.

Doran followed the twisting red passages through the Maidenvault, stopping frequently as his lords and ladies stopped him to admire Rhaenys and ask after Elia. Bolder men mentioned daughters and wives and appointments, men who wanted part of court life now that Elia was queen. He ignored the dull pain in his shoulder from his half-healed wound and listened to every man in turn. Eventually he reached the dry moat of Maegor’s Holdfast. Doran thought the castle-within-a-castle darker, damper, and far less welcoming than the Maidenvault. He saw Ser Jaime Lannister guarding the far end of the bridge, his white armor shining whiter on the overcast day. Doran considered him for a moment, then hailed him.

“Ser Jaime,” he said, closing the distance between them. He readjusted his hold on Rhaenys.

“Prince Doran,” the youth answered, looking surprised. He was a Kingsguard, and as far as Doran could surmise much of the duty of a Kingsguard was to watch as if a statue, not move, not think, and certainly not play the game of thrones. But not Ser Jaime, who was as bold and reckless as he was young.

“I hear you have a new name, like your brother before you,” Doran said. “Kingmaker, they call you.”

“It makes no difference to me what name men use, so long as they speak of me,” the Kingmaker said dryly.

“I did not mean to give offense,” Doran replied. “You are not the first Kingsguard to choose a side. I was with Rhaegar at Harrenhal when they gave him his crown, and neither Ser Barristan nor Prince Lewyn slew him for a traitor. They simply…let it run its course. You did not, though. You have a sister, yes? How fares she?”

“Yes. She is well, as last I heard. She weathered the war in Casterly Rock.”

“I am glad to hear she is in good health. I hear she is very beautiful,” Doran said politely. It was not hard to imagine; her twin was tall and strong, with golden curls that framed his handsome face. Beautiful she might well be, but that hardly concerned him. 

“Yes, she is,” her brother agreed. “The light of the West.”

The Hand’s daughter and the light of the West. _And in need of a husband._

“I am sure you love your sister as I love mine, so you must understand how grateful I am to you that my sister is safe and well.”

“Queen Elia will recover?” Ser Jaime asked. He sounded even younger, somehow. More innocent. 

“Ah—yes,” Doran replied. Though that depended on his definition of ‘recover’. “We do so pray. She has staved off any infection, and the maesters say that is her biggest danger.”

“I am glad to hear it,” he said, and he sounded it. 

“As am I,” Doran said. _Now to be the gracious friend._ “If you are in need of anything, Ser Jaime, do not hesitate to ask. And know you are always welcome at my table. Our mothers were dear friends while they lived in King’s Landing. I hope we can be as well.”

Then Doran took his leave. Joanna Lannister may have been near to his mother’s heart, but that had not extended to Lord Tywin, whom his mother claimed was ruthless and boorish, and she only ever tolerated for Lady Joanna’s sake. _Do not misunderstand me, Doran, Joanna was ruthless as well,_ his mother had told him. _But she was far cleverer about it. And so endearing. She could order a man’s death and he would just be flattered she knew who he was!_ But his mother was in Sunspear and he was Dorne now, in her stead. There was no love lost between Aerys and Lord Tywin, and perhaps there might be friendship to find between House Lannister and House Martell.

He wound his way up the circling stairs as Rhaenys walked her fingers across his chest. Outside Elia’s chambers stood her new steward, a Dornish man of his own appointment. He knocked and opened the door to announce his arrival. It was Elia’s voice, not Oberyn’s, which had answered. That boded well. Doran perked up hopefully. _She will live,_ he told himself for the hundredth time.

Her cheeks were gaunt and the dark circles under her eyes made her appear almost skeletal. Yet she smiled so broadly tears leaked from her eyes. Oberyn had propped her up with what looked like half a hundred pillows. Oberyn himself was laying beside her, reclining casually on top of the blankets. He was dressed splendidly in court silks, looking all at odds with Elia, with her body bundled underneath several blankets. Doran looked at them and all too easily the image of her naked, weeping, twitching, and smoldering came into his head. He had never seen anything so helpless. He had never been so helpless.

“Oh, dear brother. And my sweet princess,” Elia said weakly, her voice pulling Doran out of the memory and back to her, back to her _here_ , and back to her alive. 

Doran crossed the room to kiss his sister gently on the forehead. “Elia. You look stronger,” Doran told her. Rhaenys seemed ready to jump into Elia’s arms without abandon. Her sudden movement made his shoulder twist in pain. “Careful, child. Just give your mother a kiss.”

“You brought the little bedbug too,” Oberyn grinned as Rhaenys leaned forward with her lips pursed to kiss Elia.

Doran pulled up a chair for himself and then sat Rhaenys down on the bed beside Elia. “I missed you, mama,” Rhaenys squeaked.

“I missed you too, little one,” Elia smiled sadly. 

“Here, Rhaenys. Lie down next to you mother like your uncle Oberyn,” Doran instructed her. She observed Oberyn for a moment before imitating him. Elia reached out a hand, and Rhaenys took it in both of her own. Doran smoothed the front of his silks and sat down in the chair.

“How good it is to see you, Doran. I have missed your face. I have missed both your faces,” Elia said, her face soft. “You cannot know how happy I am that we are all together again. ”

_Oh, Elia, how can you be happy?_ Oberyn’s smile did not quite reach his eyes. He stroked a strand of Elia’s hair from her eyes and kissed her cheek, but when Elia was turned he gave Doran a dark look of anger. How could she be happy? She should be furious. At Aerys. At Rhaegar. _At us._

For once, Oberyn kept his mouth shut. He did not want to tax her. The things Oberyn would do for Elia, Doran thought. It had been a wonder he had not stabbed Rhaegar on sight. No doubt his grief and worry prevented him from acting so rashly as to get himself killed. “When the war is won, you will not hold me back?” he had demanded over Elia’s crumpled body. 

One look at Elia was enough. “I will hand you the blade,” Doran had promised.

And now she lay before him, alive and hopeful, despite everything. 

“It is good to see you too, Elia,” Doran murmured. “Have you seen Lewyn?” 

“No,” Elia replied haggardly. “Oberyn said he came to see me, though. If only mother was here as well. I should like to go to Sunspear again…when the fighting is done.”

Doran wondered when the fighting ever truly would be done. With Aerys and the rebellion still very much alive, Rhaegar needed to be fighting with swords and words to sit atop Aegon’s ugly throne. Rhaegar was King Rhaegar now, and that changed everything. Elia belonged at his side; anything less would be foolish. He doubted Rhaegar would consider a trip to Dorne after the war was over just to please Elia. Doran could not foresee any trip to Sunspear that did not involve Rhaegar getting stabbed, and even Rhaegar must see the same.

But all he said was, “I am sure that would make mother very happy.”

“Oh, yes, I am sure. All her babies, together again,” she patted Oberyn’s cheek. He scrunched up his nose and grinned like a boy who had just found a sweet. “If only she could see you two now, playing the game of thrones for my sake. She always said you were like grass and viper.”

“Three guesses which one we are,” Oberyn told Doran. Elia gave a sleepy laugh. Oberyn propped himself up with mock eagerness. 

“Elia, tell us—“ Oberyn laughed as Elia rolled her eyes. “No, tell us—if we are grass and viper, what are you?”

“The sun of all Dorne,” Doran answered. 

Elia smiled so brightly she almost looked like the happy girl of her youth. He could see the girl in her for a moment, full of life and light. Her smile was as painful as a knife to his chest, knowing how undeserving he was of it. As soon as her joy came it faded, like the setting sun over the horizon. Elia shut her eyes. He had never seen her look so tired. Then she opened them again and Doran saw a ferocity that startled him. “Doran…thank you. My babies,” her voice broke. “Thank you.”

Doran swallowed guiltily. They had saved her—and from what? This never should have happened to her. He was her brother, and one day would rule all of Dorne, yet he had let his own sister burn on a pyre before half the realm. How could he expect to protect Dorne when he couldn’t even protect his sister?

“Where is he?” Elia whispered. 

“Locked in a room, awaiting his fate,” Oberyn replied immediately, his eyes on Elia, like a rabbit waiting to see what the fox will do.

“And…what is his fate?”

“It has not been decided,” Doran told her.

“I want him dead,” she said sharply. She glanced down at her daughter. She looked back at Doran and repeated softly. “I want him dead.”

Doran gave a small nod, but Oberyn said, “I will gift his head for you to kiss, Elia. You will have justice. All of it. We learned—”

“Stop,” Elia said abruptly, loud enough the effort seemed to tire her. “Hide your fangs here, Red Viper.”

Oberyn stopped, his eyebrows furrowed. Elia looked around the room and at each of them in turn. She said softly, “The walls have ears.”

Oberyn gave Doran a dark look. “The spider.” _How the eunuch had kept his head… ___

__Elia nodded, her eyes shut._ _

__“We should let you rest, Elia,” Doran said. She didn’t even open her eyes this time when she nodded. Doran kissed her, and saw that Rhaenys had fallen asleep as well. To his surprise, Oberyn followed him from her chambers. They called a maid back in to watch her, then made their way down the steps of Maegor’s Holdfast. They walked in silence until Oberyn said, “The godswood?”_ _

__Doran nodded. The godswood of the Red Keep masked the smell of the city with scents of earth and leaf. Doran imagined it would be beautiful in high summer, thick with leaves and flowers. Now, it was sparse and cold and wet. They made their way through dead brush and around small melting clumps of snow. Cold drops fell onto Doran’s crown as he walked, the ice covering the elms and alders melting above him._ _

__As soon as they were far enough into the godswood Oberyn stopped. “Aerys, not Rhaegar. She said as much. Did you hear her?”_ _

__Doran nodded slightly._ _

__“She will not say his name. She will not speak of him, nor hear me speak of him,” Oberyn shook his head in frustration. Dark annoyance etched every inch of his face. “She should be angry. She should be asking for Rhaegar’s head with Aerys’s. I do not understand her.”_ _

__Doran sighed and observed the godswood for a moment. A fresh bud sprang through the melting ice that frosted a nearby bush. Spring had come, but the world remained half frozen. A cold wind bit through his silks, sending a shiver that caused his shoulder to twitch in pain. “You cannot understand. You have never been wed,” he said finally. Elia had loved Rhaegar, and perhaps a part of her always would…_ _

__Oberyn paused. “I never understood why you love Mellario so, after all the grief she causes you.”_ _

__He had it backwards. He had loved her first, and that had been the source of all his grief. How much easier his marriage would be if he had never loved her at all. But he loved her, and she hated Dorne, and that was the beginning and end of all of their problems._ _

__“But Mellario never tied you to a stake and burned you alive,” Oberyn finished._ _

__“That was Aerys. Not Rhaegar.”_ _

__Oberyn looked at him in disbelief. “Rhaegar tore the realm apart!” Oberyn snarled. “They are one in the same.”_ _

__“As much as I despise him, he has none of Aerys's cruelty. When I first heard that Jon Arryn had called his banners and Elia was hostage...I thought otherwise. Aerys always hated Elia. And Rhaegar...he was the mad King’s son, truly, I thought. His sins against us were not from malice, but negligence and stupidity. And now...I think he still has a small affection for Elia, in his own way.”_ _

__“In his own way,” Oberyn scoffed. “Forgive me for not being as sentimental as you when it comes to Rhaegar’s stupidity. Affection alone means nothing.”_ _

__“It is not nothing.”_ _

__“Not nothing?” Oberyn said incredulously. “He forsook duty. Wake up, Doran. Elia will never walk again.”_ _

__“I am not asleep,” he retorted. “Nor am I likely to pardon such sins. But do not forget it was his affection for Elia that gave you your seat on the small council and Sunspear the fealty of the marcher lords. Affection begets guilt, guilt demands restitution, and restitution gives power.”_ _

__“And what power do you hope to gain from Rhaegar in exchange for Elia’s legs?” Oberyn challenged._ _

__“Elia has already suffered. We may at least see that she that she did not suffer needlessly.”_ _

__“How much like mother you sound. She was never one to waste a tragedy,” Oberyn said dryly. “Elia always said I inherited her ability to smell weakness, but I always said you got the ability to milk those weaknesses to the last drop.”_ _

__From his tone, he clearly did not mean it as a compliment. “You think I am wrong to demand recompense for her suffering?” Doran asked. “I thought you wanted justice.”_ _

__“It is not justice you speak of,” Oberyn snapped. “If you wanted justice, you would be planning Rhaegar’s death, not seeking his favors.”_ _

__“And I have assured you we will plan as much in due time,” Doran responded patiently. “Until then we are his loyal brothers.”_ _

__Oberyn ground his teeth before he finally capitulated. He looked at Doran and grinned crookedly. “Just as I am yours.”_ _

__“Not quite that loyal,” Doran said darkly. “Our path now aligns with Rhaegar’s: we must secure the realm for Aegon’s sake. I do not demand you forget our grievances with him, but we have more pressing matters at hand. We must make ourselves without rival at court. Lord Tywin is the greatest of these...I would prefer if he were our friend—”_ _

__“—But if not, he must be declawed.”_ _

__Doran gave a tired nod. Silence fell between them, though the noise of the city and Blackwater Rush could still be heard faintly. A cold breeze rolled over the barren godswood and sent another shiver and subsequent stab of pain to Doran’s shoulder. Oberyn’s red cloak billowed behind him like a tongue of flame. The wind covered his face like a sheet, and Doran shut his eyes. It was as refreshing as a cup of cold water. Dorne did not have winds like this. Dornish winds bit with sand, not cold._ _

__“We are far from home, brother,” Oberyn said. What were they doing here? He belonged in Sunspear with their mother, with his wife, with his children. He needed to care for his mother in her illness, and help her rule. He needed to watch Arianne play in the Water Gardens, to hold Quentyn again before he had to be sent away. He belonged with Mellario—fighting or fucking or long silences—anything would have made more sense than standing here with Oberyn, talking about Tywin Lannister._ _

__“I should never have gone to Essos,” Oberyn said quietly, looking away into the depths of the godswood. “After you exiled me, I should have gone to Dragonstone to serve Elia. If I had been with her...”_ _

__“You would be dead,” Doran said flatly._ _

__“I am not so easy to kill. And Aerys would not be able to send me away like he did Lewyn.”_ _

__Doran did not reply. He personally thought it more likely that Oberyn would have gotten himself killed long before Aerys sent Lewyn away._ _

__“Aerys...what a king. And Rhaegar, what a pair the two of them are. What utter madness. I find it hard to blame the rebels for wanting to do away with them. What sort of king burns his own innocent kin? Or lords without trial? I may be half-mad, but neither have I ever betrayed you or Dorne. What evil times do we live in that we should have feared for our sister when she lived a princess in the castle where she would one day be a queen? Am I supposed to assume such terrible villainy of our kings? As much as I would love to drive a sword through Aerys’s gut, I would much rather Rhaegar kill his own father. And Aerys die by his own son’s hand. As for Rhaegar...I would see him beg Elia for mercy before the end.”_ _

__“If Rhaegar failed Elia, we failed her first.”_ _

__Oberyn bristled. “I mislike being compared to Rhaegar,” he said stiffly. “I did not betray her. Nor did you. We could not have foreseen this. I wish I had been here, but by the laws of gods and men Elia should have been safe with Rhaegar and Lewyn. But Rhaegar and Aerys betrayed her. _We_ did not. How could we imagine such villainy? Mother could not have. You could not have either, Doran. Lay the sins at the feet of those deserving. The Mad King, the Silver Cunt, and the whore who tore the realm apart.”_ _

__He thought of Maester Colette, telling him Rhaegar had crowned Lyanna Stark with blue roses. And then? Should he not have known then? “And yet...”_ _

__“And yet what? You think you are guiltier than Rhaegar? Or Aerys?”_ _

__“No, no. But I do feel guiltier. That is for a certain.”_ _

__“Your guilt does you no good, and neither does mine. What matters now is justice,” he said impatiently. He put a hand on Doran’s shoulder and said quietly, “You had no hand in Elia’s fate, Doran. No more than I.”_ _

__“Yes,” Doran agreed, staring at the grey wood against the grey sky. “Is that not worse? We had no hand in it. It was simply...the whims of madness. What good was noble birth or keen mind or drawn blades before the might of the Iron Throne and the madness crowned on top?”_ _

__He could feel Oberyn’s eyes on him as he stared out into the godswood. It was a bare place, cold and dead. He worshiped the Seven, not the wooden old gods of the First Men. They had no place in this godswood, no more than two Dornishmen had a place in King’s Landing. Doran wondered what sort of gods would let winter come, when winter was their own death._ _

__“I have spent many nights thinking over all my deeds, wondering where I went wrong to cause such ends. Things done and left undone. If we had failed Elia...we could ensure we would never fail her again. But in all my sleepless nights I found nothing,” he turned to his brother then. “We had no power, we had nothing, we could do nothing. That angers me, Oberyn. That frightens me.”_ _

__Oberyn tightened his grip on Doran’s good shoulder. “We are not without power now. Now we can pull the strings of fate.”_ _

__“Yes,” he said shortly. “Now we can. But one day we will be dead, and Elia as well. And someone else will hold the strings.”_ _

__Oberyn raised a thin eyebrow. “Are these strings you speak of for Aegon or Arianne?”_ _

__“Or another,” Doran shrugged. “Hand or fool or king makes no matter. Someone will take the strings, and someone will dance in our stead. Rhaegar will give his crown to Aegon, and we shall give him mind and will, if he has his mother’s sense. And Aegon will give his crown to his sons, and their sons. And yet...will Aegon give our gifts as well? We cannot be certain.”_ _

__Oberyn gave a small laugh. “Try as you can, even you cannot pull the strings after you are dead.”_ _

__Doran made a noise of dissatisfaction. “You are right. Yet again, I am powerless. But I stay in this stinking shit pile of a city and persist in these futile devices.”_ _

__“Futile—“ Oberyn began before taking an annoyed breath. Then he continued. “No one likes this eyesore of a city. But the Water Gardens can wait, Doran. Elia needs us. Aegon needs us. You are the one who said we would rule together. Elia is Queen now, and we will be first in the realm. We may not have had a hand in Elia’s fate, but we have one in Aegon’s.”_ _

__Doran did not reply. _Do we?_ He thought._ _

__“Even the gods are not so powerful to hold the strings to every man. They have far too few hands between them and far too many men to play their cruel games with,” Oberyn gave a half smile. “And men have a will of their own. That is our great strength and our mortal weakness. That what we do is not futile, Doran. Aegon will be king, and that will be _our_ doing. When Aegon is king, you could raise your hand and force the realm to dance if you wished. You have wanted that from his first cry, do not deny it. Now we stand so near the Iron Throne its shadow darkens my face. Yet you speak as if we will gain nothing. I do not understand you. What more ambition is there?” _ _

__“What I speak of is not ambition.”_ _

__“I know of what you speak, and it is not wisdom. It is grief and guilt and worry. I am no stranger to them, either. But you waste your mind wondering what use you have to Aegon.”_ _

__“No...well, perhaps. I was not asking what use I have to make a glorious reign for Aegon. It is his reign that I wonder where the use lies,” Doran looked at Oberyn, whose thin eyebrows were furrowed deeply. Doran could see confusion and trepidation forming behind his dark eyes. Doran shook his head and continued, “We came to King’s Landing thinking Elia would rule as Mariah Martell once did, and Aegon would be as her sons were. But what use were the reigns of Maekar and Aerys the First when the blood of Sunspear can still burn on the whims of a King? House Martell ruled here once, and yet...it gave us nothing.”_ _

__Oberyn paused. “If I did not know better, Doran, I would think you desired to sit atop that ugly chair in your own right.”_ _

__Doran grimaced, and Oberyn gave a tentative laugh, his eyes still fixed on Doran. To sit on the Iron Throne himself was a laughable notion. Westeros would never abide a Dornishman on the Iron Throne. No, the closest a Dornishman would get would be a regency for a nephew…_ _

__“Or is it a crown you want, but a different throne? One a little closer to home, perhaps?” Oberyn asked._ _

__He shook his head. Doran could see Oberyn sucking on the inside of his cheek as he waited for Doran to say what he meant. He could see his brother’s patience wearing thin, but the gods did not bless him with extraordinary patience, and cursed him with an elder brother who thought too much and talked too slow._ _

__“I do not know what I desire,” Doran sighed. “But this I do know. My nephew or no, Aegon will not burn his kin or his lords or steal off with their daughters even if he wishes. And I do not mean to lay my hope in his successors’ skill at common sense.”_ _

__Oberyn looked down at him, his face serious. He hummed in assent, then a smug half smile appeared on his lips. “What you are saying is that Elia is right.”_ _

__Doran nodded. “In the longest of ways...what I am saying is that Elia is right. Aerys must die. And not at our hand. It must be the King’s justice.”_ _

__“And Rhaegar? You expect him to serve justice on himself?”_ _

__“I said the King’s Justice.”_ _

__“So Aegon, then,” Oberyn shook his head with a pained smile. “If we sing sweetly enough, Rhaegar might even give justice to his father. But deposing Rhaegar will be a touch harder than deposing Aerys. He has too much support, and us too little.”_ _

__“For now.”_ _

__“For now?” Oberyn’s hands flew up in exasperation. He clenched his fists as if to restrain himself from placing them around someone’s throat, most likely Doran’s own. The motion made him grunt in pain and snarl, “Damn it, Doran, I have stomached Rhaegar this long because we need him to reunite the realm. I will not suffer him any longer.”_ _

__“You wanted justice. This is justice. Anything less is just death,” Doran replied simply._ _

__“I do want justice, but I will not wait decades for it. It is one thing to poison him in his sleep, another to stage a coup in the name of a child. I will do as you bid before, and kill him once Aegon is secure in his birthright. Once he is dead the crown will publish his crimes. That shall be his justice.”_ _

__“And you can stomach that?”_ _

__“I stomach what I must. But your plan is mad ramblings. If we wait for the realm to love two Dornish snakes and their puppet king to overthrow Rhaegar, I’m afraid we will be waiting a long time. How long till he shames Elia again? How long till he starts another war?”_ _

__There was truth in that, Doran saw._ _

__“The lords of the realm might be amenable quicker than you think. If you recall, half the realm recently declared war against the crown to protect their rights. Even those loyal to Rhaegar do not fancy the idea of being burnt alive without a trial. I, for one, certainly do not,” Doran said. “The power of the crown is too strong, and its laws too weak. Arryn, Stark, Baratheon, Tully—the rebels must have seen that, to form such a great alliance.”_ _

__“Yet it seems Rhaegar’s alliance was greater in the end. But Aegon’s hold is too weak. You think we can gain friends among the loyal and rebels to outnumber Rhaegar? I think not, brother. Aerys shall have a trial. Let Rhaegar condemn him before the realm and hope he condemns himself as well. When the realm is secure, he dies and we rule—and _we alone,_ ” Oberyn said. “To overthrow him, even if we could, would take many friends in many high places. Friends we do not have. And even if we could make such friends, at what cost? What titles and promises? Aegon would rely on men who are not kin. Men who are not Dorne. What gain is there in that? That we might see Aegon be named kinslayer for usurping and condemning his father? For he will be named such. Rhaegar could die next week if we wished it, but he will not be overthrown, not for many years, not till Aegon is of age. The longer Rhaegar lives, the more like he is to mold Aegon into himself and by sun and spear and seven I will not let that happen.”_ _

__“I fear we may have little say in the man Aegon grows to be. As you said before…men have a will of their own.”_ _

__“Then we would have no assurance that Aegon would even turn against his father once he is grown. If we want to condemn Rhaegar, he must die before Aegon is old enough to harbor any love or loyalty to him. Killing Rhaegar is easy enough, but we cannot undo him without undoing Aegon’s reign as well,” Oberyn said. “Rhaegar unites the realm, Rhaegar dies, and we teach Aegon to remember his father as he was, a treacherous lecher who had less honor than he had sense. That is how Rhaegar gets his justice. That is what we agreed.”_ _

__Doran paused, thinking. “I will think on it, Oberyn.”_ _

__“It is what we agreed,” Oberyn repeated sharply, his eyes venom._ _

__Doran sighed. Rhaegar should never run off with the Stark girl. It was folly, but perhaps it was not a crime as he had thought. Doran wanted to check the madness of House Targaryen now so that it did not punish House Martell in the future as it did to Elia. Rhaegar had run off with a woman, but he was hardly the first king or prince or lord to do such a thing. Yet he had started a war...but what law could be writ into being that would prevent such a war again? Not to take a noble woman to mistress without her father’s consent, or her husband’s? Perhaps the blame was on the Stark woman, for letting her father think her a chaste maid that must have been stolen, not a lustful girl who had run off. _Damn her, damn them both,_ he thought. _ _

__He would always judge Rhaegar for not loving Elia—what man in his right mind would not love Elia? But if all he had done was love another, Doran would have forgiven him. His own father had gone through a few mistresses and his mother had loved Gael Blackmont since they were girls in the Water Gardens. No wars had come of that. But Rhaegar had not just loved another...he had abandoned Elia without a word when she was still abed after giving him an heir. And in a single stroke he proved his astoundingly incompetent diplomacy by angering three of his greatest future vassals. Doran had always expected from Elia’s letters that one day a civil war might spark, but he had expected it between Aerys and Rhaegar, not the crown and half the realm._ _

__“I want justice for Elia, same as you. But justice is not enough,” Doran shook his head. “Not for me. Aegon’s legacy is close to my heart, but so is my own. If I can do anything, I would protect our future lines from their kin on the Iron Throne. That starts with a just trial for Aerys. But I do not think it ends there.”_ _

__“And where does it end?”_ _

__That was the question._ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Doran ft. depression & existential crisis. So the Martell siblings are united—and all looking in different directions. Elia is looking to the ideal—which makes sense because of how much pain she is in, to cope by focusing on the good and ignoring the bad—dreaming of her mother, and Sunspear, and the happiness of her family being together again like when they were children—and pushing Rhaegar from her mind, who is far too hard to think about. Oberyn is looking to the past wrongs and how to right them—he is fixated on Elia’s hurt and getting vengeance on everyone who he deems responsible. Doran is looking towards the past and seeing that he never really could have done anything to prevent it, that Mariah Martell birthing kings didn’t prevent it, that nothing could prevent it and so what is the point??? Doran is a bit of a control freak in canon, trying to plan the perfect targ restoration plan, so it would make sense that things being so blatantly out of his control in this AU would hit him really hard.
> 
> Also, interesting to note, both Oberyn and Doran have expressed some understanding of the rebels a few times, with Oberyn asking “what, are you saying ruling through Aegon isn’t good enough and you would have rather declared independence?” and also Doran expressing that loyalists and rebels might be interested in having something to protect them from the monarch burning them alive, like he did to Rickard and Elia. 
> 
> And finally, I think it makes sense with Doran’s personality that now he is with Elia and she is alive, he does not hate Rhaegar with the same emotional intensity that Oberyn does. Like yes, he still blames him, but not equally with Aerys. All on the same side, but Elia, Oberyn, and Doran do not all feel the same about Rhaegar.
> 
> Thanks all for reading and leaving comments! I love it. Question for you all: what do you think Varys would be doing in this AU?


	21. Catelyn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “If I look back I am lost.”  
> Daenerys IX, _A Game of Thrones_

The air bit at her skin through her thin, soaking shift as she came ashore. Her hair was heavy with water, but even still the wind whipped it around her face with a stinging smack. Whatever victory she had felt as the river swept her away had long since gone. She had floated silently in the dark for a few hours as Lannister men with torches rode up and down the massive river. Finding her in the vast river under cover of night was a fool’s errand, and Tywin Lannister was no fool. What had she told Edmure? _Lions don’t know how to fish._ She could swim, but not forever. Sooner or late the cold water would creep into her heart and never thaw. 

She quickly crept into the cover of the wooded shoreline. She had last seen men search for her along the south bank, as the River Road sped up travel. She would just have to walk along the northern bank and cover as much distance as she could, then ford the river and cut across country south. 

Her teeth chattered loudly as her body adjusted from the cold water to the biting wind. Her shift was hardly helping her stay warm as she walked along the river, soaked as it was. She took it off and rung the cold river water from it as best she could. She did the same to her hair. With her hands she rubbed as much water off her skin as she could before pulling the shift back over her head. If it helped at all, she could not tell.

She rubbed her arms and focused on moving. If she kept walking, she would warm up, she told herself. Every so often she had to stop, curse, and pull something sharp from her foot. Before long the cold air had dried her hair and she wrapped it like a scarf around her neck. She wasn’t sure how much good it did. She was cold and tired and hungry and frightened, but she forced herself to put it all from her mind—Riverrun and her uncle and her little babe and Ser Steffon and Lord Tywin. Just one more step, she told herself. This was her path. Walk till sunrise. Ford the River. Make for Stone Hedge. The seat of House Bracken was the nearest castle to Riverrun if she wanted to head south. Once she was there she could get food and drink and warmth. Then, she would make her way to King’s Landing and beg King Rhaegar to protect her brother and his rights from Lord Tywin. She did not have time to consider if the plan was a bad one. She just had to keep moving forward. It was keep walking or freeze.

Catelyn found herself stumbling less as her feet numbed. Her teeth chattered so noisily she clenched her jaw shut, but that did little to stop her shivering. The King’s Crown shone at its zenith and dawn was hours away. She wondered if she would survive that long with all her fingers and toes. She quickened her gait, only to stumble over thick roots wrestling through the clay alongside the river. She could not look at the sky and walk, she must needs focus on her feet. Just one more step. Just one more. Just one more.

Perhaps it was the cold, or her tiredness, or the rushing of the Red Fork but Catelyn did not hear the voices approaching until they were in the same dark clearing as her. She froze. Lord Tywin. Lord Tywin had found her. The voices grew louder as they crashed through the brush. She turned around frantically and hid behind the nearest tree. She could run, quickly, before they saw her. She abandoned the idea as soon as it came. Perhaps they would not see her but they would hear her in an instant. She faced the river, her back at the flat of the tree. She could escape into the river as she had before, she thought. The idea of plunging back into the freezing water gave her pause. She would just have to hope not to be seen. She looked around, pleadingly. The trees above her hid the sky from view. _The trees!_ She glanced up and began to carefully climb the tree. She tried not to make noise, but just a little scuffle the men would not hear over the river. She climbed high enough until she was sure they could not see her, and not too soon, for she could see two horses stop near the base of her tree.

Catelyn held her breath and peered through the branches. She could see in the darkness the outline of a small cart. The men argued with gruff and uncouth voices. She could count two men walking around, their silhouettes dark and foreboding. If they found her…

“It’s still dark,” came a new voice, young and sleepy, like Edmure sounded when she woke him up.

“Dawn’s a few hours off. Gon’ give the donkeys a rest, an’ Beetle caught us a rabbit,” one of the men replied. Donkeys, not horses, she thought. No knight would ever chase after her on a donkey, no matter the reward. They would be lowborn men no doubt lured with the promise of gold or a knighthood to bring her back safely to Lord Lannister. 

She watched the boy and one of the men traipse around while the other rummaged through the back of the cart. Quicker than she expected they secured enough dry wood to start a fire. The flames lit up clearing and Catelyn saw the men were just men, not Lannister soldiers at all. They wore thick, woolen cloaks covered with mud, not red doublets emblazoned with a golden lion. One of the men was laying a bundle at the base of her tree. Catelyn realized the bundle was a woman, wrapped in a travelling cloak. She babbled to the man and he talked soothingly to her in return, like one might talk to a scared horse.

Catelyn studied the party as they made their camp, wondering if they would let her share their fire and maybe even some food. There was an old man with long whiskers and a stump for a right arm who took the two donkeys to the river to water. The man who carried the woman had both his arms. When he unwrapped the scarf around his head she saw the same straw-colored hair that peeked out from the woman’s hat. Most like he was her son, and the young boy as well. The boy had taken a seat close to the fire, wrapped in such a large cloak Catelyn couldn’t tell how skinny he was. She gave a small sigh of relief. The sight of the ill woman and small boy comforted her slightly. Perhaps the two men would take pity on her, if they would take care of women and children. But she was a stranger, not family. 

Soon the donkeys were grazing freely for what plants they could find and a skinned rabbit was crackling over a small fire. She could not feel the heat, but the smell of the meat drifted up to her, as if taunting her. She hoped no Lannisters would see it. All the while the woman would not cease raving. Even from in the tree, Catelyn could see her sweating with fever. The two men tried to calm her so the older son could look at something on her leg. 

“Worse,” he said in a grim voice as his mother squirmed. His little brother leaned slightly to peer around him. The older son looked at the old man and said, “We need to keep moving.”

The old man only grunted.

His mother took his hand. "The lady came to me, I saw her, she came and took my hand. I saw her!”

He rubbed her hand comfortingly and turned to his brother. “Eat quick, and get as warm as you can.”

“She floated down from the sky...as pure as the maiden. She took me away, far away. Lifted me up and we flew, I swear it, we flew!"

"Lay still mother, you're weak," he said soothingly.

"No, no, not weak, dying, leave me be. I'm waiting for the maid, the one with sunset in her hair. You'll sing that song, won't you? Won't you, Corin? You always had a nice voice. You'd sing when you were a boy."

"She needs to stop talking; she needs rest," grumbled the one-armed man.

"No, no, I need the song, then she will come and take me away," the woman insisted angrily.

The son sighed, and looked at the old man before turning back to his mother. Finally he said exasperatedly, "If I sing, will you stay still and try to rest?"

"Yes, yes, sweet boy, I’ll rest. Not another peep," she said cheekily.

The boy sighed and started to sing “the Seasons of my Love.” He did have a lovely voice, as nice as any of the singers her father had brought to Riverrun. Catelyn couldn’t help but feel less fearful now. The mother tilted her head back and shut her eyes. She was smiling contentedly as fat tears rolled down her cheeks. Catelyn shut her eyes too, and for a moment she could pretend she was back at Riverrun, dancing with one of her father’s bannermen, laughing without care. When the song ended, she was hiding almost naked in a tree, wet and cold and hungry.

The dying woman laughed when he finished, then opened her eyes and stared straight into Catelyn’s. Catelyn froze. "Bless the seven, you came, you came. It wasn't only a dream. She's come to take me away!" The woman exclaimed.

“Mother,” said the man disapprovingly, clearly not impressed she had not kept her end of the bargain.

The young boy looked up to where Catelyn was hiding. “Corin!” he said, his voice high and frightened. The two men looked up. Catelyn tried to hide better, her heart pounding.

"Wha—seven hells!" exclaimed the man named Corin.

The one-armed man jumped up violently and drew his sword. "Who's there? Show yourself!" Catelyn pressed herself into the tree, hoping to be swallowed by it.

"Come closer, come to me, I'm ready, I'm ready,” the woman was saying excitedly. “The gods have sent her to me, I told you!"

"Show yourself! We know you're there; the fire flickers in your eyes," the old man barked.

It was no use; she must speak sooner or late. Her voice rasped but did not falter. "If you stay your steel, I shall descend."

"Don' think we will, woman. Not till we see you're unarmed," said the old man suspiciously, but the younger man muttered, “Beetle, it’s just a girl.”

“I swear by the seven I am unarmed,” she insisted, her nails digging into the bark on the tree.

“Then come down and show yourself.”

“We mean you no harm if you mean us none,” the staw-haired man said loudly. After several moments of internal debating, Catelyn began to scale down the tree. She landed on the hard ground and straightened up, forcing herself not to shiver. She may be near naked, freezing, and hiding in a tree, but she would bear herself proudly, not in shame. She was a Tully of Riverrun and not scared of anyone, she reminded herself. 

"Who are you? How long you been spying on us in the tree? Wan’ to slit our throats when we sleep?" the one-armed man called Beetle spat.

The little boy stayed on the ground beside his mother, wrapped in a great cloak. The young man’s eyes softened when he saw Catelyn. "She's unarmed, Beetle," he retorted tiredly, and put a short knife back in his belt. The old man only glared at Catelyn harder.

Catelyn’s eyes darted between the two men. They were dressed plainly and warmly. The old man narrowed his eyes suspiciously. The small fire flickered in the young man’s eyes, but that was all the fire Catelyn could see. His eyes were weary, his face drawn, and he looked like all he wanted was to sit down and sleep for a few days. He turned expectantly to the old man, but the old man did not move his sword or his eyes. The blade was nicer than anything else he was wearing and she wondered if he had stolen it. The young man just grumbled and walked towards her to take the rabbit off the fire.

The injured woman paid no heed to the one-armed man’s doubts. "Let her come to me, I say, let her, she can do no more harm to me. . .the gods sent her, I tell you. Listen to her."

Catelyn gulped, shivering. She could feel the fire, just barely. If only she could get closer. She considered just stepping a little closer to the heat, even if the old man was pointing his steel at her. 

“Who are you? Wha’ were you doin’ in tha’ tree?” the man asked accusingly.

She had to talk and hope they did not kill her. "I heard voices and was frightened, so I hid in the tree," she explained. The sound of her voice was strange to hear. Husky, still not fully healed from the Mountain’s fist. 

"And why didn' you come down since, hm?"

“Seven save us,” the young man cursed quietly, shaking his head. He had taken out his knife again and cut up the rabbit into portions. He handed a piece to the boy, licking his fingers. He stood up and handed a piece of meat to the old man. He looked pointedly at the old man’s drawn blade and said, “Maybe she didn’ come down because she was afraid we might skewer her.”

The old man ground his teeth in annoyance, but for some reason the young man took that as a victory. 

"We mean you no harm, friend,” he said. He held out a bit of food in his hand towards her. “Hungry?”

Catelyn’s stomach growled. She was hungry, yes, but more importantly the rabbit was hot and dripping and she longed to feel the warmth. She nodded, but she did not move. The young man gave a pointed look to his companion, who finally sheathed his sword with a grumble. The man reached out his hand to Catelyn. “Come, warm yourself by our fire—we have plenty of room, and my mother seems eager to mee’ you."

Catelyn took the rabbit from his hand slowly and followed him towards the fire. She was so cold she imagined throwing herself onto it, the way she had thrown herself into the river. The flames danced warmly against her cold skin as they knelt down beside the woman. Catelyn was no maester, but she could see immediately her eyes were glassy with fever. The young man helped his mother raise her head.

"Please, please, the gods sent you to me. Will you take my hands?” Catelyn took both her hands in her own. They were clammy and sweaty. “You are here, then? I am not still dreaming?"

"I am here before you in flesh, good woman. What shall I call you?"

"Marys, gods be good. Have you come to take me away?"

"I do not know. . .is that what you wish?" Catelyn replied carefully, looking up at the young man for guidance.

"Take me to my Chellan and Ash, and Marya too. And my mother and father. I want to, yes, but I don't know the way."

Catelyn could smell something…the same smell that filled Riverrun after she had freed the Trident. _Death._ There was nothing to do but comfort the woman. "I can show you, all you must do is rest. You are unwell. Let the rush of the river help you sleep.”

The woman started to cry. "I can'…can't think of nothing, ‘cept the blood on my hands. He keeps following me. I see him in the shadows...when I close my eyes..."

The son at Catelyn’s side wiped the sweat from her forehead. "Mother, we told you. The man attacked you. If you hadn’ have killed him, he would’ve killed you and Axel." Catelyn thought of Ser Steffon, and his steel fist around her ankle. _It’s my fault,_ she thought. _He did not need to die._

"No, no, my hands are not clean, I can see the blood. He was only a boy, some poor woman's son. I always pray to the mother, but she has hidden her face from me...what mother kills a son?"

Ser Steffon was lying before her, cold and clammy and lifeless. You’re my luck, he whispered. Catelyn pushed his face from her mind until she saw Marys before her again. Catelyn’s hands were shaking, but she said quietly, “There is no sin in wanting to live...to want your children to live. The seven are also one, only seven faces of the same God. The mother can be merciful, but when her children are in danger she is fiercer than the warrior,” she thought of her son, enemies all around Riverrun. There was nothing she would not do for him, she realized. “The mother would offer a thousand men to the stranger if it would keep her children safe. And to offer herself, there is no act more great, more holy." _I will go to King’s Landing,_ she swore, _or die in the attempt._

The woman sighed, and pulled Catelyn's hand to her face. Fat tears rolled over their hands. “Mother,” she said. Whether she meant the Mother, or the woman who had given her birth, Catelyn didn’t know. “I see you, I see you. Mother, have mercy. Forgive me...forgive...” She trailed off faintly.

“There is nothing to forgive. The seven smile upon you.”

“I can see them. Bright as the sun.” She was staring up above, to something beyond the trees and the night sky. “Watch over my children, will you?”

“Yes, yes, I will,” Catelyn’s eyes rose to look up at her son who held his mother’s head. He was staring at her neck curiously, but his grey eyes that looked red in the firelight flicked up to meet hers. 

“Cold, cold as death. . .you’ve come, haven’t you?” Marys nodded furiously, looking frightened all of a sudden, as if Catelyn were the Stranger itself. “I’m ready. I’m ready.”

“Just lie down and rest. You will feel better when you wake,” Catelyn said soothingly. Her son helped her get comfortable and the old man put another cloak about her. The woman shut her eyes and slept, her mouth smiling contentedly. Catelyn wondered if she would ever wake again.

The old man’s hand brushed Catelyn’s as they helped the woman recline. He recoiled immediately. “Your hands _are_ cold as death. . .that’s why you’re here, innit? You’ve come to kill her?”

“What? No!” 

He put himself between her and the woman and put his hand on his sword hilt. “Begone, Stranger!” He said with authority, though he looked frightened.

The hairs on her arms and legs stood up. She stood up and tried to back away. “Please, I mean no harm!”

“Leave her be,” the son insisted. “The Stranger wears a hood.”

“The seven is one, like she said. Just disguised like the maid, to get our guard down,” the one armed man insisted.

“I shall leave you in peace, then,” Catelyn replied. “I am only a weary traveler, as suspicious of strangers as you. That is why I hid when you came to make camp, but now I see I should have ran instead.”

“No, and let you sneak away and off good Marys while we sleep? No, that won’ do,” he retaliated. Catelyn considered running before he could do anything. It was dark, and she might be able to lose him. But she couldn’t run fast without shoes, and he was wearing thick boots. And besides, she had no desire to go anywhere without warming up.

“Mother dreamed of her for days. How wroth would the gods be if we harmed the maid they sent?” the son said angrily.

“We still can’ trust her. We don’t know who she is.” The sandy-haired man didn’t think much of that, and argued in return. Soon, his little brother joined in. When the two boys didn’t relent, the old man growled angrily in resignation.

“Mother said to trust her, too,” piped up the young boy. He had a gap between his two front teeth, and could not have been more than one-and-ten.

“Then it’s settled,” said the older son. “Maiden, come back and warm yourself by the fire. We won’ harm you. I swear it.”

Catelyn glanced skeptically at the old man. The son turned and gave an angry glare at the one-armed man until the latter grunted in agreement. She felt wary, but any longer and she might get frostbite. She had nothing but her thin, damp shift and she had no idea how to build a fire.

“May I have the honor of meeting you and your companions?” she asked the crippled man as haughtily as she could muster. Then she sat down as close as she could to the fire without getting burned. 

“Name’s Beetle,” he grunted.

“Corin,” said the sandy-haired man around her own age, perhaps a few years older. A man, not a boy. “Tha’s my mother you’ve met, and this is my sister Janna,” he said, nodding at the child Catelyn had thought was a boy. She stopped gnawing on the rabbit leg and smiled at Catelyn. “Beetle’s a friend of our uncle.”

“I’m pleased to meet you,” she said politely, though it wasn’t completely true. She was still afraid she would get skewered any moment. The man called Corin walked to the cart and grabbed a blanket. He tossed it to her, startling her so bad she dropped the uneaten piece of rabbit. She watched it hit the ground and let out a small whimper. 

Corin apologized and helped her wrap the blanket around her without dropping her food a second time. Then, he took the muddy piece of meat and handed her his own. She thanked him, but he brushed it away casually and just wiped her piece off on his cloak before popping it in his mouth. She took a bite into her own piece. The rabbit was unseasoned and overcooked, but Catelyn could not remember anything tasting better. She had to force herself not to wolf it down immediately.

“If you’re not a spirit, then who are you?” Janna asked.

“I’m—” Catelyn started. She wondered what she should call herself. Being Catelyn Tully would only get her into trouble. “—Cat,” she decided.

“Why you traveling all alone, Cat?” Janna asked. “You looked about to freeze.”

“Janna,” her brother said tiredly. She looked at him, and he shook his head. 

“Wha’?” she shot back at him. Then she turned back to Catelyn. “Thieves and soldiers are lurking about making trouble for everyone.”

“Thieves and soldiers? They look all the same to me, now,” Beetle grumbled, pulling at his whiskers. “You kill ‘em?”

Catelyn stared at him in confusion.

“The soldiers. The ones who…” he trailed off and nodded at her lack of clothes. 

“Oh,” Catelyn said, at a loss for words. He thinks me taken by soldiers as a spoil of war. No, she almost said, but she had been taken, and she had killed…

“Enough. Leave her be. Wha’ happened to her is her business. You have family who can help you?”

“Yes,” she said, thinking of her uncle Brynden. “But we were separated.” That was true, at least. She wished they would not interrogate her, but she could hardly blame them. Their mother had been dreaming of her. 

“Us too,” the girl said sympathetically. “We’ll find them after the fighting’s done.”

Catelyn saw the two men exchange a look, and then her brother said her name quietly.

The girl silenced him immediately. “We escaped. Why no’ them too?”

The two men didn’t argue with her, so she went back to tearing at her food with the ferocity of a bear. 

“If you’re alone, you could travel with us,” Corin said decidedly. That seemed too much for the old man, who got up angrily and walked away from the fire to show his disapproval. He still stayed close enough to hear what they were saying, though, Catelyn noted. Corin continued. “It’s not safe traveling alone.”

That seemed true enough to her. “Where are you headed?”

“Riverrun,” he said bitterly. “We need to get to a maester, you see, and don’ know where no castles are, ‘cept Riverrun. We just follow the river and we’ll run right into it, like the name says.”

“You’ll find no haven at Riverrun. Lord Tywin has marched from Casterly Rock and leaves only burning and rubble in his wake. It is not safe there.”

“What?” said the girl who looked like a boy, glancing worriedly at her brother. “If we can’t go to Riverrun, who’s gonna heal Ma?”

“We have to get to a maester, and there is a maester at Riverrun. The lions can’t take Riverrun, and we’ll be safe inside there in a few days.”

“The lions have laid siege to Riverrun. They march this way,” Catelyn insisted.

“Others take the Lannisters,” Corin spat. He rubbed his beard, clearly trying to think. “Take the Tullys and all the rest.”

“An’ which way should we go, woman?” the old man said from the shadows. “Run straight back into the battle near the Trident? No, don’ think so. How do we know she’s tellin’ the truth?”

“What would I have to gain by lying?” Catelyn said incredulously. 

“Dunno, you tell me. If you not lyin’, then how’d you know all that?”

“Because I saw it with mine own eyes,” she replied coolly. 

“You from there? Riverrun?” Corin asked.

“No,” she said quickly. “Pinkmaiden...I was a maid in the castle.”

“Really?” said Janna, smiling. “I’ve always wanted to live in a castle.” Catelyn gave a polite smile back.

“Ah, that explains it,” said her brother with the smallest of laughs. 

Catelyn looked at him questioningly.

“Why you talk fancylike. Thought you might be a lady,” he explained. He had the same gap in his teeth as his sister. Catelyn’s breath caught in her throat. His little sister only laughed at him.

“Why would a lady be all alone in the woods? She’d have knights all around her, of course,” she rebutted.

Corin just shrugged. His mother moaned, causing the rest of them to jerk in surprise. Beetle came back near the fire to look at her. 

“We need to keep moving,” he muttered. 

“Where?” Corin asked.

“There is a castle south of here,” Catelyn said, her voice hoarse. “Stone Hedge, the seat of House Bracken. It is not too far from here, and I am sure they have a maester.”

“You know how to get there?” 

“Yes, I think so.”

“And how do we know the lords will let us in, if we find it?”

_Because I am their liege lord’s daughter._ “My brother is in Lord Bracken’s household guard,” the lie came quicker this time.

“Wouldn’t he be off fighting, then? So we will have no one to vouch for us.”

_Oh, no._ “His wife will still be there. She is wetnurse to Lord Bracken’s own children, and much in his wife’s favor.” She wondered how hard it would to keep all these lies straight. 

Corin surveyed her carefully for a moment before turning to Beetle. “What’dya reckon, Beetle? Fuck the Tullys. I say we go to Stone Hens.”

Catelyn raised her eyebrows but held her tongue. She was Cat now, and what they said casually would not matter to Cat.

“We already agreed on Riverrun,” he replied tartly.

“Yesterday you said you piss on House Tully.”

“You said the same, and you convinced me to go anyway, for Marys’s sake,” the old man retorted.

“Well, now we know Riverrun isn’t safe no more,” Corin said, lifting his mother up. “It’s all we got. Besides, we can’t let her travel alone. If mother knew, she’d skin me alive for not looking after the woman she dreamt about. Perhaps that’s why the gods sent her to us.”

The two argued briefly, with Janna occasionally chiming in, and finally Beetle agreed, though resentfully. Catelyn had no desire to leave the fire, but the longer they stayed by the river the more likely Lord Tywin would find her. Beetle hitched up the donkeys and Corin nestled his unconscious mother in the back of the cart. Janna finally unwrapped herself from the cloak and Catelyn saw that in her lap was a sleeping child, a babe near as small as her own back at Riverrun. “Oh,” she said with surprise. She felt tears welling up in her eyes, and was thankful that it was dark. 

“He’s a good sleeper. He don’ roll or cry or nothing,” Janna said, lifting him the child up as Corin threw dirt on the fire. The wind bit at her immediately, and she stood up and pulled the blanket around her better. 

“You can start on Belly, since you don’t have shoes,” Corin told her. He helped her mount the donkey and suddenly the baby was dropped in her arms. 

“Can you hold him and stay seated?” he asked. She nodded, looking at the small sleeping child. He took the donkey by the bit and said, “You don’t need to do anything but stay on. I’ll lead him. So which way are we going?”

“South,” she said, pointing through the darkness. “We need to cross, but it is shallow here. We should reach a village called Gared’s Grove before two days have passed.” 

And so they started off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey remember all that time (two whole books) Arya spent trekking around her mother's country? 
> 
> And now the race is on--can Cat get to King's Landing before Tywin?
> 
> Thanks for reading (and for comments), because hey, I'm doing this for fun and random compliments from the internet void :)


	22. Lysa

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “The shy girl she had known at Riverrun had grown into a woman who was by turns proud, fearful, cruel, dreamy, reckless, timid, stubborn, vain, and, above all, inconstant.”  
> Catelyn VII, _A Game of Thrones_

“Lady Lysa?” a voice came through the door.

“Go away!”

“Hope is not lost yet, Lysa. Ser Brynden and Lord Arryn may yet come,” Evelyn Mallister said, her voice ringing vexingly with hope. 

Lysa sniffed. “I said to go away!”

Evelyn was silent for a moment before murmuring softly, “I will pray for your comfort in this dark hour.”

Lysa stared angrily at the door for several minutes just to be sure Evelyn had left. Once Lysa was certain that she was gone, she sighed and turned back to her window. She sat balled up on the windowsill, her head resting on her knee. Across the rushing river lay the thousands of tents heralding the might of Casterly Rock. The camp shone gold and black in the setting sun as the shadows of the tents grew larger with every passing minute. Ser Desmond said it would not be long before they mounted another attack. She rubbed the tears from her eyes. _What would happen to her?_ She watched the sun sink beneath the camp and wondered where Cat was inside it. 

Uncle and Lord Arryn would not abandon her, they just wouldn’t, but for all she knew they were dead. Catelyn had told her they had retreated north, but that news was old and stale now, from before the Lannisters had come. For all she knew, Prince Rhaegar had met them in battle again and smashed them to pieces. They had all died, just like her father, and now she would too. Before she could think a hopeful thought, Lysa burst into tears. With her sister gone, despair was now her constant companion. 

“I am the only one left,” she mumbled through her tears. The Riverrun of her memory was gone, all the feelings of home and comfort with it. Catelyn had sent Edmure away without even letting her say goodbye, just like her father sent away Petyr. And now they were dead. Father was dead, Cat had told her so, and she had seen the Mountain that Rides take Catelyn in his fist and shake her till she was still. She wondered miserably if he would do that to her. Edmure would not make it alone through cold country to Uncle Brynden, and even if he did, uncle and his army would be corpses by now. Edmure didn’t deserve that, even if he was an annoying little brother, always trying to steal Petyr’s attention. He didn’t deserve the fate Catelyn chose for him, no more than she did.

Once her tears had run dry, Lysa sat quietly, staring out the window. They should just surrender. She had told Ser Desmond so, but he didn’t listen. He never listened to her, not the way he listened to Cat. She had scarcely seen him since her sister had been stolen, as he never came to tell her things. When last she saw him, he told her to pray for the health and speed of her husband when she next prayed for the soul of her father. 

Daughters were supposed to mourn their fathers, but Catelyn would have to mourn for the both of them. It would not be hard for her; she had always been his favorite. She had been his _true_ Lady of Riverrun and Edmure had been his only son and she had just been Lysa. She thought it wouldn’t hurt anymore, now that they were all dead, but somehow it still did. Her father had murdered her baby and sent Petyr away, and forced her to marry old Lord Jon so he could join a stupid failed rebellion. She had almost refused to marry Jon Arryn, but she had seen how angry her father could get with Uncle Brynden. And besides, how long could Lord Jon live? And she would have her own castle if she were the widow of the Lord of the Vale. If her father lifted the siege, maybe things could be different and she would forgive him, but he had betrayed her again with his death. 

She heard a muffled cry. The castle had no shortage of muffled cries since the siege started and smallfolk had taken refuge within the castle. It was a cry she knew, a desperate wail as the little lord called after his mother. She remembered the sound from her childhood, when her mother perished in the birthing bed. The babe had cried for her for days until he finally went silent. She remembered the little box they put him in and placed at the stern of the boat. Her own sweet baby had been thrown into the Red Fork with the rest of the contents of her chamber pot. She stared at the rushing river, wishing that she could hold her baby in her arms as she was meant to. After one last look, she tore herself away from the window.

Her bare feet hit the cold floor with a pat. She made her way across the room and out the door, shutting it slowly so to not make a sound. She didn’t want Evelyn to find her and ask her to eat or to go to the sept. Though it was dusk, she was still wearing her nightgown from the night before. She snuck down the hallway as quietly as she could towards the nursery. 

By the time Lysa had arrived at the door, the crying had stopped. She waited for a long moment, her ear on the crack in the door, listening for the nursemaid. Once she decided the coast was clear, she opened the door.

Riverrun had little time to purchase items before the war dampened trade, leaving the little lord’s nursery sparse. She walked across the thick rug, fur tickling through her toes like grass. The cradle was beautiful, at least. It was carved and painted, with an overhang of myrish lace. She drew it back to look at him. 

He lay with his head turned, his hand in a fist near his mouth. She could tell his eyes were open. His beautiful hair was gone, as Catelyn had hacked it off with a knife. Lysa gave a small smile. She wondered if he could tell she was there.

She reached down and picked him up. He made a noise as she took him into her arms, but she shushed him. “There, there, sweet baby. I am here. I am here.”

He was heavier than she expected, especially when he wriggled. He looked up at her with his great blue eyes and she felt her own become tearful. _He looked just like her son, the one she had lost._ “I’m here, baby. I won’t leave you, not like Cat. I will be your mother now.”

She clutched him to her chest and kissed his brow. “Petyr. I will call you Petyr, for my Petyr who was stolen from me. Nothing will harm you so long as I am here,” she told him matter-of-factly. “You are mine now. I won’t let anything happen to you.”

Suddenly the child began to cry, and Lysa hastened to quiet him. She rocked him up and down the way Catelyn had done it, but the child did not cease. “Come now, enough of that,” she scolded him gently. “I have you.”

Lysa heard the creaking door open and turned to see the wetnurse. 

“Pardons, milady,” the girl said, curtsying poorly. “Thought he might be needin’ the teat.”

Lysa looked back at the wailing child. She tried to calm him again with kisses and pleadings, but he was stubborn, as stubborn as her father. She reluctantly handed him to Milly. Lysa tried to wait patiently as her babe was fed, but she found herself growing more annoyed with Milly as the minutes went by. She walked over to the window to distract herself. The camp was alight with activity, even moreso than usual. Lysa watched in fascination as the torches carried on the other bank swirled like some fiery river. It made her think of the stories Edmure made her read to him about Old Valyria. 

“It looks like something is happening,” she said curiously, more to herself than to the peasant girl. Out of the corner of her eye she saw three boats ferry men across the river, far enough away from the battlements to not get rocks dropped on them. 

After the babe had eaten his fill, Lysa took him back into her arms and sang to him. She sang every song she knew, even after he had fallen asleep. The castle was quiet before she herself began to grow weary and make her way back to her own bed. She lay down Petyr and snuggled up beside him, stroking his little head. She could hear the sound from the Lannister camp over the rushing of the river and her eyes filled with tears. She had almost forgotten the siege with him in her arms, if only for an hour. 

“I hope your dreams are full of light,” she whispered, a tear running down her cheek to her pillow. “Would that I could join them.”

An urgent knocking jerked her head up. She opened her eyes groggily to see the sun well over the horizon, its beams showering her room with golden light. The boy beside her stirred but did not wake.

“Lysa, are you awake? Cat has escaped! Open up!” Evelyn banged on the door. 

Lysa sat up and rubbed her eyes. _Where did Cat escape from?_ She thought sleepily. She rolled off the bed and shuffled to the door.

“You can’t turn me away, not this time,” Evelyn informed her through the door.

“I’m not,” Lysa huffed, her eyes half closed. She opened the door and Evelyn strode in immediately.

“Half the army is gone, Lysa, can you believe it? Half!” Evelyn squeezed her tightly. “How are you still abed? Half the army is gone and Cat has escaped!”

Evelyn squealed and hugged her again. 

Lysa brushed the hair from her eyes. “Cat escaped? How—how do you know?”

“Last night some of the men heard as they worked at repairing the water gate. I guess the men guarding her shouted so loud it carried over the water. Thank the gods they heard it!”

Lysa turned to the window, then back at Evelyn. “Where would she go? Edmure had a head start, and Cat said they wouldn’t be looking for him. But they’ll catch her before midday,” Lysa said worriedly. 

“Why, she would come back to Riverrun of course,” Evelyn said wickedly, holding out her hands to Lysa. Lysa had not noticed until now that she had been holding a dress in her hands.

Lysa tentatively took the dress and shook it out. It was Cat’s dress, deep Tully blue and mud red, the dress Cat wore when she shot her great sewing needle into the river. She felt the soft fabric with her hand, one part wonder, one part fear.

“As soon as Lord Tywin sees you on the battlements in Cat’s dress he will stop searching for her. Isn’t it splendid? It was my idea, you know,” she beamed proudly. 

Lysa froze. “I can’t,” she breathed. 

Evelyn put a hand to her face and pulled her gently upwards. “You don’t have to do anything. You don’t even need to speak. You just need to wear it, and be beautiful,” Evelyn said gently. “And that’s not so hard for you.”

On another day, Lysa would have smiled sweetly and blushed. Today was not a normal day, and so Lysa just stood there, pale and wide-eyed, staring fearfully at Evelyn.

“That is all. Lord Tywin will do the rest.”

Lysa nodded and looked back at the dress. “But if Cat is here, won’t the rest of the army come back?”

“They didn’t leave for her, at least Ser Desmond doesn’t think so. Five thousand men are far too many for a search party.”

Before the hour was up, Evelyn was leading Lysa up to the battlements. Evelyn’s hand was soft and warm and gave her more comfort that she could thank her for. The sun seemed impossibly bright, but perhaps that was just after spending so many days in her room. The men were cheering, shouting “House Tully!” and “Lady Catelyn!” and “Lord Hoster!” Part of her wanted them to cheer her name, and the other part wanted to run back to her room. But Evelyn squeezed her hand and led her forward.

The dress felt strange—it fit so well that it struck her as strange.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My attempts to capture a Lysa who is the shy girl at Riverrun Catelyn remembers but the traits we see of her in canon--her jealousy of Cat, resentment of her father, adoration of Petyr--still there, just latent beneath the surface. Hopefully Evelyn's ruse will help Cat stay out of Tywin's clutches...


	23. Mellario

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Besides, Prince Doran had not listened to his lady wife for many years.”
> 
> The Princess in the Tower, _A Feast for Crows_

South of Sunspear along the coast of Dorne sat a lovely manse nestled between sharp rock outcroppings and twisting trees that grew ripe with fruit during summer. It was winter now, but a mild one at that, and the house kept its doors and windows opened for the salt breeze from the sea and the muted smell of citrus that pervaded throughout the year. At court in Sunspear they would say that it was here that Mellario of Norvos made her home, but Mellario had never found a home in Dorne. But the manse was hers, and hers to do with as she pleased.

Mellario did not think herself hard to please, though her husband would say differently. Here, she kept her own servants—Norvoshi servants she had known since her girlhood who would not judge her every act and whisper about her foreignness between them. Such had been life when she lived in Sunspear. The girls who cleaned her room and the boy who saddled her horse and the children playing in the walled city and the ladies her husband had brought to wait on her and even her husband, him most of all, always they were wondering _why are you so difficult? Why are you not Dornish?_

But here, here she could escape them all. She could eat Norvoshi food and drink Norvoshi ale and listen to Norvoshi songs. She could let her children share her bed and not serve supper till the moon had risen. She could sleep in late and no servants here would judge her if she did not wear her wig. How insufferable wearing a wig was in the heat of Dorne, but in Sunspear she had not dared to take it off unless in her own chambers. Yet even still the servants muttered of “Lady Egg” or “the sheep-sheared Norvoshi woman.” 

She could even speak High Valyrian to her servants if she wanted. Doran had told her Nymeria abandoned the language of her birth to embrace the language of her new home. And so Mellario had tried, oh she had tried. She tried too well, it seemed. When she realized her mind thought not in the sweet symphony of High Valyrian but in the clunking Common Tongue of Westeros, she wept. Doran had not understood—and how could he? He had never had to forget the Mother Rhoyne or its language. He had never had to forget his home. She had never asked him to.

Mellario had woke looking forward to spending the day teaching Arianne how to work her loom, but as they broke their fast a rider came from the Water Gardens from Princess Loreza. When questioned further, the rider admitted that Princess Loreza did not simply wish to see her grandchildren, but had received a letter from Prince Doran. As Arianne bounced in her chair excitedly, Mellario told the man politely they would ready themselves and leave by afternoon. Arianne loved the Water Gardens, and Mellario knew once they had arrived she would cry when they had to leave. Mellario sipped at her sweetened milk, wondering what Doran had written her. The last letter he had written was brief, just a quick note saying that he had recovered from his wound and hoped to see them soon.

The trip to the Water Gardens lasted most of the afternoon. Even now in winter the sun was shining, though the air was cool and dry. Doran would call this a pleasant ride, but the wind still blew sand off the dunes and against the side of the carriage. Hardly half an hour into their journey she pulled the windows of the carriage closed to protect their eyes from the sand. The last thing she needed was Quentyn to spend the entire ride crying.

When the carriage finally slowed, Mellario opened the windows cautiously to see the Dornish sun setting over a vast expanse of red sands. The short, spindly trees and sparse brush that lined the Water Gardens looked yellow in the setting sun. She exited the carriage carefully, Quentyn sleeping in her arms. He looked so sweet when he slept, his mouth gaping wide open as he drooled on her shoulder.

“Where’s grandmother?” Arianne asked immediately after her feet touched the sand. 

“Princess Arianne,” Lady Gael Blackmont said warmly. She was a pretty woman nearing her fifties who had grown rather stout in the last few years. “Lady Mellario. Welcome. Loreza is expecting you to supper, but you have a few hours to refresh after your journey.”

Mellario and her children followed Lady Gael to their chambers. Ravens were trained to fly to Sunspear, not the Water Gardens or Mellario’s manse, but one of the young maesters sent along any important letters to the princess by riders. Princess Loreza spent most of her time at the Water Gardens since her health had deteriorated. The maesters said that it was a fouling of her heart, but what it meant was that Princess Loreza spent most of her days abed, or sitting beneath the trees in the Water Gardens. When Mellario had first come to Sunspear, she remembered the anxiousness she felt as Doran led her into the throne room to meet his mother. She had been in good health then, sitting regally in Nymeria’s chair, her consort Ser Genten Vaith at her side. Mellario learned as she walked that Ser Genten had brought the letter himself from Sunspear, to visit his wife and liege lord. 

Dinner was a quiet affair, not like the grand feasts Princess Loreza would host at Sunspear. Mellario entered the small dining hall to see the princess sitting proudly between her husband and her lifelong paramour. Ser Genten has leaned in to tell some clever jest that left Lady Gael tittering and dabbing at the corner of her eyes. The princess herself was looking forward, a wry smile on her face. It was the smile of a woman who had seen much, good and ill, and borne it all. The smile widened when she saw Mellario enter with Arianne and Quentyn in tow. 

“Ah!” She smacked her hand upon the table, her jeweled bracelets jangling. “My sweet grandchildren. Come, come! Give a kiss to your grandmother.” 

Arianne kissed her grandmother dutifully, then to Mellario’s surprise kissed Ser Genten and Lady Blackmont. Princess Loreza reached out for Quentyn expectantly, and Mellario helped him into her arms, hoping she did not notice the moment’s hesitation. Quentyn, still grumpy from his recent waking, gave a whine and reached back for her. Mellario resisted the urge to pluck him back up and hug him tightly. How much longer until Lord Yronwood took him away forever? Princess Loreza kissed both his hands and then both his cheeks as he whimpered. 

“He just woke up,” Mellario explained quickly, uncomfortably aware that she was already damp with nervous sweat. 

“How much like his father he looks,” Ser Genten said approvingly as Arianne hung off the arm of his chair, observing Quentyn with skepticism. 

“Yes. And so handsome!” Lady Gael cooed. 

When the boy had been fully appraised, a maid came to take him away and dinner commenced. Servants brought in a soup of eggs and lemons and blood oranges, grape leaves stuffed with raisons, onions, mushrooms, and fiery dragon peppers, and then skewers of chopped snake. Mellario said and ate just enough to be polite. After every course she prayed the meal would be over and they would retire to the princess’s solar and Loreza would show her the letter from Doran, but the dishes kept arriving. 

Finally, after servants came to take away the sherbet and custard dishes, Princess Loreza kissed Arianne goodnight and invited Mellario to join her in her solar. Ser Genten helped her rise and kept a strong arm supporting her as they walked. She had grown weaker since Mellario had last seen her, when Doran had marched north. When they reached the solar, Mellario waited patiently for Ser Genten to help Princess Loreza into her plush chair and Lady Gael to tenderly wrap a blanket about her. Mellario wondered if they would stay, unsure if she preferred them to. Princess Loreza had never been unkind to her, thought Mellario knew she took offense that Mellario did not worship Dorne. Mellario supposed she was similar to Doran in that. But of course Ser Genten and Lady Gael took their leave. They may be Dornish but this was family business, and just like Mellario, they were not family. 

“A letter came from Doran,” Princess Loreza said when they had departed. “King Rhaegar now sits the Iron Throne, with my Elia at his side. He also has named my sons to his small council.”

Princess Loreza must have seen the flicker of surprise in Mellario’s eyes, for she continued with a proud smile, “Doran is now Master of Coin, Oberyn Master of Ships.”

Oberyn. Even just his name made her grow angry. She knew Doran’s brother Oberyn most as the child of five-and-ten with a man’s appetites and a boy’s selfishness who gave Doran a headache more than not. When he returned from his exile some ten years later, he returned a man, and a dangerous one at that. Mellario saw instantly that he had outgrown none of his boyish flaws, but rather grown into them. His selfishness gave way to an insufferable cockiness he felt he had earned, his quick temper now was backed by self-righteousness, and his boyish mischievous grin had turned to a sly smile full of cunning. He had hardly spared her more than a chaste kiss that sent shivers down her spine before shutting himself in a room with her husband and Princess Loreza for hours. Who knew what words were exchanged, but when the doors opened Dorne was at war. 

And for that war, her Quentyn had been promised away. Her babe had just begun to walk when Doran had called the banners in his mother’s name. They had not spoken for two weeks until he came to tell her that in a few years, Quentyn would foster with Lord Yronwood. The memory of it made her burn angrily, as hot as the stupid sun on his tunic. 

“He is my son,” she had wept.

“As he is mine,” Doran had answered. 

“How can you be so cold? He is only a child!”

“He’s a prince. I fostered at Salt Shore, Oberyn at Sandstone.”

“So he is to be punished for your brother’s sins? I am to be punished?”

“I know you cannot see it but every thing I do is not to punish you. This is simply how things are.” How patronizing his voice had been. How calm he had been—calm! 

_No, this is how things are here,_ she should have yelled, but she had not thought of the retort until hours later. 

She had fought, but in the end her son had been traded to pay for Oberyn's sins to get support to save Elia's position. He should have been angry, remorseful, apologetic, but her tears had merely frustrated him. Once she had thought him kind, sensitive, slow to anger, and with a quick wit. Now she saw other things as well, ambition and deceit and pride, a pride so quiet she mistook it for humility once. Doran was slow to anger, that was true, but even worse, he was slow to forgive. She had cried the first night they arrived in Dorne. No matter how much she tried after that to love the barren waste he called home, she knew he never forgot how she cried. She hated Dorne, and he remembered it every time he looked at her. 

Mellario realized then Princess Loreza had continued talking and returned to being the dutiful daughter and listened. “Hand of the King. Pah. He thought my Elia too poor a match for his golden son, and his precious daughter only fit to be queen. But now he has a dwarf for an heir and a husbandless daughter. He always wanted to be feared, but I only pity him. How much he would hate that,” she gave a short laugh that quickly turned to a hacking cough. She pulled out a handkerchief and covered her mouth.

Mellario waited patiently through her coughing fit, unsure who Princess Loreza was talking about, and frankly, not particularly caring. Doran was the only one who concerned her. Master of Coin? 

“I hold the children no ill will, of course,” she assured Mellario. “I will always love Cersei and Jaime for Joanna's sake, but when Aerys offered Rhaegar to Elia, I accepted without hesitation. I sometimes wonder if that was wise, seeing how horrid he has treated her. I wonder if Tywin still harbors hope that his daughter will be queen. I told Elia as much long ago when she wrote to me of her trip to King’s Landing and how Tywin kept his daughter close and refused every offer for her hand. Joanna always said he was stubborn when his mind was made up. But even he should know he has lost to me, now. Elia is queen, and even prancing his golden daughter around did not catch Rhaegar’s eye.” 

She frowned thoughtfully in a way not unlike Doran. Mellario waited for a moment to make sure the woman had finished, and then opened her mouth to speak, but Princess Loreza cut her off obliviously. “I have a mind to send out riders after her, or offer a lordship to whoever brings her to me.”

Mellario did not understand. “After the Hand’s daughter?”

Loreza’s eyes shot quickly from her distant thoughts to Mellario’s own eyes with a judgmental look that also was not unlike Doran’s. Her eyes were sharper though, like her daughter’s, or Oberyn’s. Viper’s eyes. “Cersei? Of course not,” she said dismissively. “The girl is in Casterly Rock, no doubt waiting for her father to deem it safe enough to travel to King’s Landing. I speak of the northern girl. The one Rhaegar ran off with. If she is still alive, no doubt Rhaegar is also waiting to take her to court as his mistress.” 

Princess Loreza wanted to steal the king’s lover? No doubt that would rain down fire and blood on House Martell—on her, on her children. Before she could help herself she asked, “What would you do with the king’s mistress?”

“Nothing! Don’t look so ashen. I’m not about to string the girl up by her thumbs. She stays here and can’t bear Rhaegar any new little Daemon Blackfyres. Ah,” she waved her hand nonchalantly. “It’s a foolish notion. I won’t say I won’t do it, but it’s a foolish errand. But enough on her. I did not call you here to speak on her, but of you.”

“Me?” What had she done now?

“You,” Princess Loreza said tartly, massaging her bony hands. “Doran’s place is in King’s Landing now. Yours as well.”

King’s Landing? Doran despised King’s Landing, he had told her a hundred times. Or was that Dragonstone? Perhaps he had been lying then, to spare her the stress of having to acclimate to another foreign city.

Loreza continued. “Arianne and Quentyn will go with you, of course, until Quentyn is old enough to foster at Yronwood—“

Mellario found her voice then. “Doran always said his place was here, in Dorne—“

“The lords of Dorne are in King’s Landing now that Elia is queen. Doran’s place is at her side, just as your place is at his.”

Her last conversation with her husband had been terse and brief. She had thought perhaps the tragedy of his inevitable departure for war might have stirred something in her heart, some desperation to not let him go. But when he said goodbye he neither apologized for leaving nor for stealing Quentyn. He had told her that he loved her, but he loved so many things more than her that Mellario hardly thought it counted. 

_Her place was at his side,_ she pondered. Mellario could not truly believe that he would make her move to King’s Landing—but maybe, just maybe, he truly missed her. He wanted to make amends. Perhaps he remembered why he had fallen in love with her, that dusky evening in Norvos. She remembered the unbelievable joy she had felt when Doran had held her in his arms and Arianne had kicked in her womb. How long they had prayed for a child, and then, finally, the gods had heard her prayer. And Quentyn, she had prayed for him too, a child to mend the hurt between them. Doran had promised him to Yronwood, but perhaps if she went to King’s Landing she could convince him otherwise. He loved her, she knew he still loved her, and if he could just remember why…

“Can I see his letter?” she asked tentatively. 

Princess Loreza looked at her desk, then finally called in a servant to find the letter instead of performing the arduous task of standing to rummage around for it. Eventually the girl found the piece of paper and handed it reverently to Princess Loreza, who handed it to Mellario.

_Mother—_

Mellario’s heart plummeted. She read the note quickly, the first word ringing in the back of her mind, louder and louder, until she reached the last line.

_Assure my wife and children I have not forgotten them and love them dearly._

Mellario blinked back angry tears. He had written to his mother, not her. He had told his mother of his brother and sister, of armies and strategies, of king and court. He spoke of Dorne, of how he longed to teach Quentyn to swim and Arianne to ride, of how that all must wait. He spoke nothing of bringing Mellario and their children to court. A moment ago she had been hoping that Doran would not ask her to move to King’s Landing, but now that he hadn’t, she found out that was far worse. He may not have forgotten her, but he had forgotten the desperate love he had once bore her. That Mellario’s place was at Doran’s side was Princess’s Loreza’s wish, not Doran’s. He left no place for her at his side anymore. 

She gave a short breath to compose herself. “He does not want me there,” she told Princess Loreza. 

To Mellario’s surprise, the princess snorted in disdain. “Nonsense. You want him to beg?”

She snatched the letter out of Mellario’s hand and flattened it. “You would have to be a fool to not see he does not pine after Dorne. He wants more than anything to return. A true Dornishman’s heart is always in Dorne.”

Desperation took hold of Mellario then. “If you told him to return, he would—“

“Of course he would. I am his mother. I am his liege. Why would I do such a thing? Elia needs him far more than me. You think I do not want to see my sons again before I die? I course I do. And his children, he misses his children most of all. You must take them to him, Mellario. That will ease the pain of being so far from home.”

 _His children,_ Mellario thought that night as she lay in her new chambers in the Water Gardens. His children slept soundly beside her, but Mellario found no rest. Doran wanted his children, not her. She would have to go to King’s Landing or else he would steal Arianne from her, just as he had stolen Quentyn. She turned to look at Quentyn in the dark. He slept unburdened while his mother worried beside him, wondering if he would forget her. She huffed in anger. Doran would steal Arianne from her, and Arianne was all she had left now. _He was too much a coward to tell her himself and must hide behind his mother’s skirts,_ she thought disdainfully. But he had always been a coward. 

Mellario tried to imagine a world where she sailed to King’s Landing with her children and she found the image difficult to conjure. The castle would be small, and eyes would judge her foreignness harshly, she knew it. Ears would be everywhere, and everywhere her husband. She had only endured Dorne by the reprieve her manse afforded, where she could escape court. Where she could escape Doran. She imagined the pained look on his face when he told her something and did not want her to argue for all the ears that would hear. King’s Landing meant silence. _I will hate him,_ she realized. _And he will grow to hate me in return._

The truth washed over her then, giving her peace and clarity.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mellario! I have lots of thoughts on Doran and Mellario's relationship, and in canon it makes me sad for both of them. The hardest part was trying to capture the resentment, but even with it, still having hope of reconciliation and then that then gets dashed. Remember how in canon Arianne felt like her father just completely sidelined her and didn't value her political input? I am guessing that is how Mellario felt. She loved Doran, but not Dorne, and Doran is Dorne. So a whole part of his life and self that he thinks she cannot and does not want to understand he then just does not share with her, which then means their relationship of mutual love is not of mutual trust, understanding, and companionship. Remember, he shared all his plans with Oberyn, but not Mellario. 
> 
> Thanks as always for comments; they fuel me. I'm actually curious as to the hits to kudos ratio (lol) and what that means. Maybe people constantly checking if ive updated and are disappointed :/ haha. woof im tired. have a great week friends.


	24. Doran

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Most deserve to be forgotten. The heroes will always be remembered. The best."  
> "The best and the worst." So one of us is like to live in song. "And a few who were a bit of both.”
> 
> _A Feast for Crows_ , Jaime II

Doran blamed Rhaegar for many things, but he could not deny that Rhaegar had a knack for showmanship, even if he did not mean to. Where Aerys’s court had been dark and sparse, Rhaegar’s court was all romance. Merchants from around the world began to pour into King’s Landing just as men from the south sent ravens home, telling their wives and daughters to come to court. The castle itself seemed to settle itself deeper into the earth as men sought to earn a permanent place at court. Doran had made half a hundred new appointments as he replaced the Keepers of the Keys, the King’s Counter, and the King’s Scales all with good Dornishmen—sons of lords or merchants, some capable, but all loyal. A Dornishman could be bought just like any other man, but for a far greater price. Every man loves gold, but Dornishmen were all romantics at heart, and loved neither gold nor glory nor women as they loved Dorne. 

Men in the castle far outnumbered the women, as Rhaella had sent many of her ladies away when Aerys took a fancy to them and Aerys had sent away all of Elia’s ladies for no reason besides spite. Men were eager to have their wives in court before Rhaella birthed or Elia recovered in hopes of securing an honored place at the Queen’s or Queen Mother’s side. Ladies of nearby castles had already arrived, Lady Mooton and Lord Rosby’s daughter and Lord Hayford’s sister, as had a few others. Some lords felt prudent to wait, as many war-torn miles lay between their keep and King’s Landing. A trip up the King’s Road from Dorne could be dangerous, but a voyage would provide no grand issue. Sooner or late, he would need to send a letter to Mellario, yet whenever he picked up a pen, he found he did not know what he wanted to say. He longed to see her and he longed to see their children, yet he could not ask her to come. They had learned long ago that sharing a castle was too close, much less sharing chambers. Perhaps he could find time to return to Sunspear for a short visit. It was a foolish dream. Elia was in King’s Landing and half the realm in revolt. His place was here now.

And what a place it was. If Mellario hated Sunspear, she would despise King’s Landing. Lords hosted Doran near every night to gain favor, or ask to speak to the king on their behalf. Lord Mooton had dined him most recently with a duck dish with a thick cream sauce that Doran supposed passed for fine dining north of the Red Mountains, but all Doran had thought was how Lord Mooton was as tasteless as his food. His true intention became clear from the first few minutes—he wished for Riverrun and all the Trident to be given to him, not Lord Darry, not his brother, and certainly not back to Hoster Tully, who lay half dead in some room in King’s Landing, awaiting his fate. Lord Mooton’s brother Myles had been given Harrenhal and Lady Whent’s daughter Eliza when Oberyn had refused both. The notion that Rhaegar had rewarded Myles for crowning him sat ill with Doran, but for now, Ser Myles—no, Lord Myles—was too far from King’s Landing to meddle in any of Doran’s plans. That was good in its own way, he supposed.

Lord Mooton’s dinner may have been for naught. Doran may have the king’s ear, but Doran unsurprisingly found that king a bit deaf. Rhaegar had taken his father’s throne, but he seemed reluctant to cast judgment upon him. Instead he spent most days shut in his rooms, poring over books and maps and who knows what. His evenings he spent entertaining his lords with food and drink and song, many of Rhaegar’s own making. He had yet to call a meeting of the small council. Doran did not know if he was waiting for Lord Tywin, buying time to decide who to give council seats to, or simply negligent. It certainly made it easier for Rhaegar to avoid Doran and Oberyn, who no doubt irritated Rhaegar the way that Lord Mooton irritated Doran. _Everybody wants something,_ he thought as he wound his way slowly through the Red Keep. 

His Uncle Lewyn stood outside a thick oaken door, armored in white. Doran nodded solemnly to him, and received a solemn nod in return. When the royal steward announced his presence, a long pause greeted Doran. Rhaegar had not requested to see him, but Doran would not be deterred. To his slight surprise, Rhaegar invited him into his study. The room itself was richly furnished, with a thick Myrish carpet along the floor and a tapestry not unlike the one Mellario’s father had gifted her on their wedding day hung upon the wall. Two large bookcases covered the stone wall opposite the tapestry, full of bound books. Light poured in from the balcony where Doran saw a magnificent view of the sky, city, and sea that almost made him reconsider his low opinion of the city’s beauty. The light surrounded Rhaegar like a halo, who himself sat with his back turned away from the sun, so the light may better illuminate the book in his hands. The door swung loudly closed behind Doran and Rhaegar set the book down in his lap.

“Your grace,” Doran said with all respect, bowing low. He raised his head to look at Rhaegar. His hair was loose, flowing silver past his shoulders. His face was clean shaven and his eyes far away, as if he had just been thinking deeply about something and part of his mind still pondered it. A freshly forged crown lay upon his brow, made of silver set with large square-cut rubies. His garb looked black, but Doran realized a thread of deep red embellished his tunic, causing it to change color in the light. A piece of silver hair fell in his eyes, and he brushed it away to look at Doran. All trace of weakness and injury had left his face, and he regarded Doran with intelligent eyes. This was not the newly minted king in Harrenhal, half-dead and forced into a corner by his and his father’s actions. This was Rhaegar of the House Targaryen, the First of his Name, King of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm. 

Aegon’s crown, Doran realized. He has fashioned himself a crown like Aegon the Conqueror’s the crown that was lost in Dorne when Doran’s own ancestors had stolen it from Daeron the Young Dragon. Aegon’s crown had been valyrian steel where Rhaegar’s was silver, but Aegon had many things Rhaegar did not. Rhaegar did have a knack for inspiring loyalty the way Aegon once did, Doran would give him that. House Targaryen would have fallen long ago with Aerys at its head and no hope of Rhaegar succeeding him.

He gestured for Doran to rise and greeted him cordially. Whether Rhaegar had planned it or no, his effect was unsettling, and Doran suddenly became very aware of the dance he must begin, a dance he would no doubt take part in every moment he spent with Rhaegar. He thought of how all propriety had vanished when Elia lay smoldering. Doran could see plain as day that neither of them had forgotten how Rhaegar had the audacity to come and see her, and Doran had the audacity to order the captain to make him leave. The book in Rhaegar’s lap lay open ominously, telling Doran that if he spoke wrong Rhaegar would return to the text and send him away. He saw a detailed drawing of Balerion the Black Dread surrounded by a tiny scrawl. “ _Dragonkin,_ ” Doran commented, nodding to the open book. “By Maester Thomax, I believe.”

The distant quality in Rhaegar’s eyes vanished. “Yes,” he said, his eyes bright in wonder. “You know it?”

“Of course. What young man is not fascinated by the dragons, in all their death and glory?” 

Rhaegar sat perfectly still in his oaken chair with the arms carved like twin roaring dragons. His head was cocked slightly to one side as he looked up at Doran. “My uncle once said the very same to me, when I was a young man. Come. Sit, Prince Doran,” he decided, holding out a graceful hand to a chair identical to his. Doran took a seat beside Rhaegar, who closed the book and placed it upon a small stack of books on the table beside him. The movement caused a pain in Doran’s shoulder, but he refused to wince. There was no room for weakness here. 

“Perhaps a queer fascination for me, but I find it an oddly comforting read. I have returned to it many times. What do you think of it?”

Rhaegar’s tone never held warmth, but Doran was startled to find it holding genuine curiosity. “I have not been a young man for many years,” Doran replied. “Now I prefer his works on Aegon the Conqueror.”

“Ah! _One King, One God, One Realm,_ ” Rhaegar recalled. “Another splendid book. His commentary on the religious tension of the time I felt was particularly well written. Though I expected you to say the work he wrote with another maester on the Daeron I’s Conquest of Dorne— _Dorne Against the Dragons,_ I believe.”

Doran could not help but smile and shake his head. “Apologies, your grace.”

“You mislike the work?” Rhaegar asked.

“He gives the land great precedence in the text, that is true, but he speaks with the assurance of one who has lived in Dorne all his life, when it is clear he has never stepped foot south of the Red Mountains.”

Rhaegar’s eyes looked at him intensely, his eyebrows creased as he listened carefully to every word Doran said. This is Rhaegar, he had to remind himself. This is the man who abandoned Elia, who started a war with his carelessness. Rhaegar nodded, soaking up Doran’s words. “Fascinating. How can you tell?”

Doran paused, thinking. “I cannot say, your grace. But any learned Dornishman would say the same…it would be as if you wrote a history on Yi Ti, having only ever read about it.”

“Hm,” Rhaegar nodded in understanding. “Were I not a king, I most certainly would be a maester doing just that.”

_Was that a jest?_ Doran smiled politely, so taken aback it was hard not to stare. Is this the Rhaegar who Elia fell in love with—curious and clever and poised? 

“I had no idea you were so well read, Prince Doran. I find it a most welcome surprise,” Rhaegar said approvingly. “Though, now that I think on it, Prince Lewyn would always gift Elia with a book every nameday. And your brother, he studied at the citadel some, did he not? I suppose it is not a surprise at all.”

His mother had always put great value on reading, a habit all of her children picked up in their own way. Doran could acknowledge he read slowest of the three, for he had the tendency to pause often to think over what he had just read. Oberyn with his boundless energy tore through books as a means to calm down late at night. Elia must have read most of the three, as all the time Doran spent at state and Oberyn spent riding and sparring, Elia had spent lying in the sun and reading. Doran could still remember how Elia would read aloud to Oberyn, who could not have been more than ten, as he carried her on his back up and down the towers of Sunspear, trying to make himself strong enough to beat young Arthur Dayne. 

Rhaegar reached to the books on the table beside him, searching for a certain text. When he picked up _The Conquest of Dorne,_ written by Daeron I himself as he campaigned through Dorne, Rhaegar said, “This is what I know, not Yi Ti. I have a mind to write my own account of this war, as Daeron once did.”

History would be sure to smile on Rhaegar, if he wrote it. He wondered if it would include how he left Elia in the hands of his mad father, and stood helpless as she burned. He wondered who in many years would be seen as heroes, and who as villains, and who as victims. And himself—which was he? He did not feel as if he played the part of hero, villain, or victim. He was just a man, after all. “What would you call this account, your grace?”

Rhaegar’s back was turned to him as he searched the bookcase. “The maesters are calling it Robert’s Rebellion. I think it has a nice quality to it. The Dragon Prince and the Storm Lord, fighting for the love of the fierce and beautiful wolf maid…ah!” He pulled out a book from the shelf and dusted off the cover. 

_And where is your fierce and beautiful wolf maid?_ Doran might have asked, but he was dancing in tune, and he dare not step out of line, not until he had what he came for. _Jon’s Rebellion would be more apt,_ he thought. But a story of Jon Arryn’s failed attempt to honor guest right and save his foster sons did not sound nearly as romantic as what Rhaegar spoke of. 

Doran watched the gentle, almost loving delicacy with which Rhaegar handled the text. The gods had granted Rhaegar a thirst for knowledge, not wisdom. It was no surprise that a man raised as crown prince of Westeros would have an inflated sense of self-importance. When he read the histories of Westeros, he saw himself in the heroes and none else. How men saw him now he hardly seemed to care. Half the realm may have risen against him, but the histories would remember him a hero. Of that, he was certain. 

Rhaegar’s face changed as he turned back to Doran, realizing what he had said, and to whom he had said it to. Doran adopted a look of curiosity towards the book and Rhaegar’s hand. Rhaegar glanced down at it. “ _The Lives of the Six Aegons._ Have you read it? A splendid read, truly. Though after my death it will need to be revised when my son is crowned. I would love to discuss it with you, once you have read it.”

“I look forward to it, your grace,” Doran said, taking the book in his hands. He waited for Rhaegar to sit down before he took his own seat again and said, “When you write your account of Robert’s Rebellion, when will you say your reign has begun?”

Rhaegar took a sip of water thoughtfully. “I will no doubt include the acclamation at Harrenhal, but the official date should be at my coronation in a fortnight.”

Doran knew all this; his uncle had told him as soon as Rhaegar picked a date, just as he had told him that today he would be guarding Rhaegar. Doran had hoped to have Prince Lewyn by Rhaegar’s side during his solo audience with Rhaegar as a friendly voice of assent, should he need it. But his uncle was outside, and Doran must act alone. “A fortnight is quite soon, your grace. I would think you have many reasons to wait.”

Rhaegar’s deep eyes looked at him questioningly. “Lord Tywin and Lord Mace should arrive within a fortnight.”

“But your mother and your wife will not be able to attend. Men will want to see that Queen Rhaella acknowledges you as king now, not her husband. If she is not there, they will weave stories that she is conspiring against you to put your father back on the Iron Throne. And Queen Elia, I would not like the same lies be said of her because she was not well enough to attend. It would please Dorne greatly if she were at your side. It is her place, as your queen.”

Rhaegar tapped his finger rhythmically on the arm of his chair as he thought. Doran waited patiently, knowing what matters pressed on him. Aerys still lived, out of sight, yes, but not forgotten. Rhaegar’s claim would always be shaky while Aerys lived, but a coronation would give some strength to his claim, even if he did not put Aerys on trial. Doran must appeal to his love of his mother, of Elia, and his hope to not see them slandered or used against him. “I could delay,” he said finally. “They should be present. Yes. They should be present. But I fear for Elia. Grand Maester Pycelle says it is not certain that she will recover. She is very weak, and I do not know how much time must past before she has the strength to attend such a grand event.”

“Elia has a strong will. Give her a few months, and she will attend.” _She has to._

“I do not think I can delay so long. Two months, perhaps. I cannot have the coronation delay the end of all this war and strife. The realm cannot afford it.”

Doran nodded. _Two months._ Elia would be weak, and she would never walk again, but given a chair with wheels she could endure such an event regally, even if she must rest for weeks after. They sat in silence for a moment. Doran’s worries never were far, but he found them abated somewhat. He had danced with Rhaegar—and he had danced well. Rhaegar would not be crowned without Elia, and that was a victory. Perhaps Rhaegar was not so deaf after all…

“War is a grievous affair, and one I much prefer to avoid. To oft innocents pay the price.” Rhaegar’s dark eyes looked far away again. 

_Your children might have been those innocents, had I not have saved them,_ Doran thought. 

“My father brought war to the realm, but I would bring peace. The realm must be united before I die and my son follows me. Aegon, the prince that was promised,” Rhaegar sighed wistfully. His eyebrows were furrowed as if he were seeing something beyond the room. All at once Doran saw how heavy the crown weighed upon his brow. “Men call me the Last Dragon, as if I alone bear the last hope of my house...but Aegon will bear even more than I, for he has both the name and blood of the great Aegon the Conqueror, and a destiny unlike any other.”

He had never heard Rhaegar talk like this, about his hopes, about his fears. _The prince that was promised_ …he would have to ask Elia if she knew what that meant. He held his tongue, knowing that Rhaegar was only deep in thought, not done talking. 

“The Last Dragon. It seems it is destiny that I was to bear the blood of the Dragon, though I oft find such a destiny more a burden than a blessing. It is a great and terrible thing, to count Aegon the Conqueror as my ancestor.”

“Our ancestor,” Doran said, and Rhaegar looked at him in surprise, as if he had almost forgotten he was there. “I was born of the blood and seed of Aegon the Conqueror, just as you.”

“Yes,” Rhaegar said after a long moment. “Our ancestor.”

Silence fell, and Doran could hear the distant sounds of the city floating up into the study. After a long moment, Doran said, “Aegon brought fire and blood, it is true, but he also brought justice and peace. He showed mercy to his enemies, and turned them into leal subjects. The rebels had no hope of surrendering to your father, but they might to you, if you set yourself apart from him.”

Rhaegar was looking down, but Doran could tell that he was listening. When he did not reply, Doran continued, “Hoster Tully is in your hands. Should he live, you could pardon him of all crimes. Treat with him generously, and you give Jon Arryn, Stannis Baratheon, and the Stark boy a way out of this war that does not end in a fight to the last blood. They may welcome the offer.” 

Had Elia not been imprisoned, Doran wondered if he would have been bold enough to march with the rebels. He thought it unlikely. Most like he would have stayed silent, just as Lord Tywin had for so long. Jon Arryn, Eddard Stark, and Robert Baratheon had all declared war to protect themselves from unjust punishment, and Hoster Tully had thrown his lot in with them to get two good marriages for his daughters. Hoster Tully had gambled, and lost. Doran could at least ensure that Tully’s loss did not mean Tyrell or Lannister gain. Rhaegar had already promised Doran and Oberyn lands in the Stormlands, and Doran had little interest in seeing Riverrun fall into Lord Tywin’s hands. 

Doran continued tentatively, “You would set yourself apart from your father if you treated with Lord Hoster generously, but…your father broke a feudal oath. You could stand up before the realm and state your father’s crimes against his lords. Then the rebels will know you as the Protector of the Realm, the father of the prince that was promised, not just the son of the Mad King.”

Rhaegar tapped his finger again as he thought. “My father has sinned against the realm, but he is still my father. My septon as a boy taught me kinslaying was the most grievous crime, and patricide was the greatest sin a man could commit. Yet this is what you ask of me.”

“I understand your qualms, your grace. Truly. But the realm will sleep all the more deeply with King Aerys dead.”

Rhaegar looked up at Doran then. “If I asked of you to pass judgment upon your own father, and sentence him to death, would you?”

Doran stopped for a moment. He had never considered the matter, because he never had cause to. “My father has been dead for many years. He died when I was a boy, fighting on the Stepstones.”

“Your mother, then.”

_My mother has never tried to kill my wife and children._ Doran tried to imagine what he would do if his mother had burned her lords alive without trial, but he could not. He was far too cautious to ever let that happen. Had she not raised him at her feet, and once he was a man let him rule at her side? If she had she shown signs of madness, it would have been all too easy to depose her, and keep her safely ensconced in the Water Gardens. If Rhaegar had deposed Aerys years ago, Aerys could remain imprisoned the rest of his life if that is what Rhaegar wanted. But now, injustices must be answered for. 

“A hard choosing, no?” Rhaegar said, interrupting Doran’s thoughts.

“Yes, your grace. I do not deny it,” Doran said quietly. “As you said before, the blood of the dragon is a hard destiny. But the whole realm holds its breath to see how you shall deal with King Aerys, and they cannot hold their breath forever.”

“You want him dead for burning Elia,” Rhaegar said bluntly. “Just as your brother wants me dead for leaving her.”

He said it matter-of-factly, not accusingly. Doran could not make out his thoughts behind his deep, purple eyes. The dance quickened, and Doran quick spun to stay in tune. “I beg pardon, your grace, but you have missed the mark. My brother holds little love for you in his heart, I will admit, but the plain truth is if he wanted you dead, you would be dead. As you are not, the only possible truth remaining is he does not want you dead.” 

Rhaegar tipped his head ever so slightly to the side. “Or you do not want me dead. He listens to you.”

Doran gave a small chuckle, as if such a comment were so outlandish he could not help but be amused. He had never thought Rhaegar a fool—only short-sighted, narrow-minded, self-absorbed. Perhaps Rhaegar was not so blind to those around him as Doran thought. “I am flattered you think so, your grace. My brother has a quick tongue but a slow ear, I am afraid.”

“As you say, my prince,” Rhaegar acquiesced politely. _He trusts me,_ Doran realized. No, that was not quite right. _He mistrusts Oberyn, and believes I am protecting him._

As if to confirm Doran’s thoughts, Rhaegar continued, “I know you have no cause to love me, but know that I appreciate your wise counsel, Prince Doran. You are one of the few men I trust will always tell me what is best for Aegon, and his future reign. That is a great gift that will not be squandered.”

Doran bowed his head respectfully. “Thank you, your grace. If I may speak frankly,” he said, raising his head. “I do want your father dead for what he did to Elia. I still dream of it most nights. But I look to the future, and I do not want to see the past. I love my nephew with all my heart, but should by some ill luck he inherit your father’s madness, I do not want to be sentenced to burn before him without fair trial. Only some want justice for Elia. All want justice for Rickard Stark. It was for that justice that your lords named you king. I would ask you not to forget them, your grace.”

“That is true,” Rhaegar conceded after a long moment. “You have given me much to consider, Prince Doran.”

When Doran left Rhaegar, he felt as tired as if he had been exchanging blows, not words. He needed to be alone, to sit and think over what Rhaegar had said, what Rhaegar had meant. What were his plans for his mistress? For Aegon? For Rhaenys? He had revealed his heart more than Doran had fathomed he would. Aegon will bear even more than I, he had said. What had he called him? _The prince that was promised…_

He shut the thick wooden door, leaving Rhaegar to his scrolls and tomes. The hallway was deserted, save for his uncle standing sentinel. Lewyn Martell was younger than his mother, and like his sister his once lustrous black hair now shown with silver. He stood straight and tall, and though Doran supposed he stood near Oberyn’s height, somehow he always seemed taller. Doran greeted him warmly. They talked briefly of Elia, of Rhaegar, of King’s Landing—all in words that could be overheard. He would go to her soon and sit at her side, talk to her if she was awake. But not yet. Oberyn would be there, and he needed time to think.

When Doran tried to take his leave, his uncle grabbed his arm. Doran’s eyes flicked up to meet his. “The small council grows,” he said in a low voice. “Richard Lonmouth will be given a seat as Commander of the City Watch.”

Had Oberyn been there, he would have sworn, but Doran only nodded, thanked his uncle, and departed. Doran had been hoping to get his cousin Myles the command of the City Watch. Lonmouth…the name was no stranger to him. Lonmouth was a close companion of Rhaegar’s, one who might know where Rhaegar was keeping Lyanna Stark. Oberyn had befriended half the whores in King’s Landing, hoping Lonmouth might let slip where he had journeyed. The appointment still surprised him. He had planned on fighting with Lord Tywin for power in court, not Rhaegar. He had expected Rhaegar to leave the court to its devices, and spend his days reading and his nights singing, just as he always had. 

_The prince that was promised._ He wracked through his mind, trying to find any memory of the phrase. Perhaps it had something to do with Aegon the Conqueror. He looked at the book in his hands that Rhaegar had given him. Was this the key to Rhaegar’s confidences? 

Rhaegar befuddled him now more than ever, with his talk of romance and history and duty and destiny. Only one thing was certain—when Oberyn heard Rhaegar intended to write an account of Robert’s Rebellion, Oberyn would be sure to write his own. He could not just let Dorne be forgotten, now could he?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know a bunch of people hate Rhaegar, and honestly, I have hated him in my own way (mostly reactionary to the characters who clearly idolize him and absolve him of everything and also last season of GOT) but I gotta say, from writing this story, he is the one who has surprised me most, because I really have tried to understand him, understand where he is coming from, and why he made the decisions he did. Obviously I wanted to give voice to the martells who he slighted in canon, but I also am trying not to just take a lazy "he's cruel and crazy and just as bad as aerys." I think Rhaegar has good intentions, but just doesn't see the potential negatives of his actions. One of the big things that enabled me to look at him as a well rounded character was having Doran begin to see some similarities between him and Rhaegar, seen in Doran’s last chapter where Doran thinks if Rhaegar is to blame than he is also, or here—Doran thinks that Rhaegar comes off as someone well-mannered and reserved and intelligent (all things he sees in himself) and kind of hates that he doesn't just auto hate Rhaegar. And like last chapter, doran grappled with that when he met Rhaegar, he freaking liked him because he was comparing him to aerys. And I think that is a source of the romanticization of rhaegar in canon--people see aerys, and he is the alternative, and compared to aerys Rhaegar just looked like a slice of pie. The last dragon. Not only was rhaegar heir to the entire realm, and for a time thought he was destined to save the world, he is also seen as the last hope of house targaryen. That is a lot of grandiose pressure, and I think it makes perfect sense that he loses sight of things and grossly underestimates how people are going to react. He operates like he knows he is the protagonist in the story.


	25. Doran

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You do lie well, Father, I will grant you that. You did not so much as blink.”  
> The Princess in the Tower, _A Feast for Crows_

When Doran returned to his chambers, he ate an early supper and pondered over everything Rhaegar had said. Rhaegar had played the part of chivalrous king well, Doran would credit him that. He wondered if next time would be too soon to bring up the Stark girl. A love worthy of song, according to Rhaegar. He thought of Rhaegar’s confusion when he came to hold Rhaenys and she had just screamed for Doran. Rhaegar had given her back even though it pained him. Doran could not picture him stealing off with the Stark girl as she screamed and cried for home. No, she must have loved him in return, and ran away from home and hearth. That mattered little to Doran. She must go back North to her young brother who now ruled. That was for certain, whether she was Rhaegar’s mistress or captive. Rhaegar did not strike him as an impulsive person, yet his impulse for love or lust or Doran knows what had near spelled the end for his house. Those impulses he had grown to expect from Oberyn, not Rhaegar. He sighed and rubbed his face, then opened the book Rhaegar gave him and read the first few pages. 

In the evening as he made his way to visit Elia he was surprised to hear music coming from her chambers. Had Rhaegar come to visit her? He stopped. He did not have the strength to dance around Rhaegar again today. He heard laughter, and with a sigh of relief continued towards the guards outside her chambers. 

Several cheerful voices hailed him as he entered, much to Doran’s surprise. The music did not stop when he entered, and he saw Lady Loreza Blackmont sitting in a gilded chair, strumming on a lute and stomping her foot upon the floor in tune. His Uncle Lewyn stood before her, bent over to hold Rhaenys’s little hands as she danced around. Elia laughed and clapped as Rhaenys jumped around merrily. Oberyn was at her side—he was always at her side—reclining beside her on all her pillows, Aegon asleep on his chest. Their cousin Myles, who was seated in a chair at her bedside, rose immediately to bring a chair for Doran. 

When Rhaenys saw him, she squealed in delight and bounded towards him. She took him by the hand and dragged him into the room as everyone cheered. How could he refuse her? She had Elia’s smile, after all. He bowed magnanimously before her, and she gave a giggling curtsy in return. Then she was bouncing and bounding all over the room, pulling him one second, then running around him the next. When she ran back to Lewyn he grabbed her and tossed her in the air. When her feet hit the ground, Lady Loreza struck up a new song.

“Here, Rhaenys,” Doran held out his hand, showing her the dance. Loreza began to sing, and soon half the room joined her, and the other half was clapping. Smiles did not come easy to Doran, but he was smiling now. 

They spent a small part of the evening in such a pleasant state, and Doran had no desire to ruin the mood by discussing his meeting with Rhaegar. He joined Elia, Oberyn, and Myles in the card game they were playing. When Elia won for the third time in a row, they demanded to know her secret. When Oberyn teasingly accused her of cheating, she gave a knowing smile and said, “Why, it is only numbers.”

Her smile was wan and tired, but it warmed Doran more than words could say. If she could entertain so many in her chambers even in all the pain she bore, then perhaps she could attend the coronation in two months. This was not truly entertaining, he knew. She wore no fancy dress nor crown and was bundled within her sickbed, and everyone present he knew she trusted as family. Their cousin Myles had always been dear to Elia, and had stayed with her when she first moved to Dragonstone, and visited her often, bringing gifts and news from her Manwoody kin. Loreza was not truly family, but Doran guessed she was as close to a sister as Elia had ever known. Named for their mother, Loreza Blackmont had shared a childhood with Elia at the Water Gardens. Their mothers had loved each other all their lives, and Doran had no doubt Loreza loved Elia, though he supposed in a more sisterly fashion than their mothers. When Aerys had sent all of Elia’s ladies away, Loreza had ridden south to Dorne, traded her silks gowns for steel plate, and marched right back north to get Elia. 

When servants brought food and drink, Doran found himself in conversation with Oberyn and Myles. When he told them Rhaegar had named Richard Lonmouth instead of Myles, Oberyn shook his head.

"Rhaegar is a pesky misfortune as far as kings go, as it seems he is both energetic and terribly stupid. I had half a hope once that he would just bury his nose in his books and his cock in his whore and leave the realm to better men," Oberyn said as Myles laughed. Elia was too far away to hear him, occupied by Rhaenys and Loreza.

"Perhaps better men are hard to find these days," Myles said. Doran could raise his glass to that, wondering again what he was doing in King’s Landing.

"Better than Rhaegar? A weak wall to breach,” Oberyn scoffed. Then he turned to Lewyn, who had just joined their group. “Apologies, uncle. I know you mislike when I speak ill of our dear Rhaegar.”

Their uncle gave a nonchalant shrug as if to say he would neither speak ill of Rhaegar nor stop Oberyn from doing so. Oberyn rubbed Aegon’s back and continued, “Perhaps they died on the Trident, along with justice."

"Thank the gods they saw my incompetence and spat me back to life to curse the realm," Doran said to general merriment. 

“You spoke with King Rhaegar today?” Myles asked him. Doran glanced at his uncle and nodded.

“He does not want to see us, so Doran had to root him out,” Oberyn gave a dry smile. “He much prefers Elia and Lewyn, who swore vows to him. You are not nearly as troublesome as I am, are you, uncle?” 

Lewyn shook his head, half amused, half exasperated. Doran knew the feeling all too well when it came to Oberyn.

“I doubt he will call a small council meeting until his Hand arrives,” Oberyn informed Myles.

“He grows quiet with appointments. He only named Lonmouth Commander of the City Watch?” Myles said, his dark skin shining as half a hundred candles filled the room with gold. “He has you princes, Lord Tywin, and Richard Lonmouth.”

“And the White Bull,” Ser Lewyn added. “The Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, wherever he is.”

“You do not know, Prince Lewyn?” Myles asked. 

“I had thought he would return with Rhaegar to fight on the Trident, but Rhaegar came alone.” Lewyn had taken off the white armor of the Kingsguard in lieu of a dark blue doublet with silver embroidery, giving him the appearance of a starry night. Doran found himself wondering what Lewyn would have thought if Rhaegar had ordered Lewyn to help him abscond with his mistress, and left him to guard her instead of Elia. He looked at Lewyn queerly, a disconcerting thought creeping into his mind.

“Uncle,” Doran said quietly. “Do you know where Lyanna Stark is?”

“Even Rhaegar would not be so mad,” Oberyn said.

Uncle Lewyn stood straight and still, the way he had stood outside Rhaegar’s chambers. “No, he would not. King Rhaegar may have dishonored Elia, but he had no need to dishonor her again and send me to his mistress. I was with Aerys when he left Dragonstone.”

“So was the White Bull,” Doran murmured. He could feel Oberyn’s black eyes upon him, their ferocity growing as the truth dawned on him. Oberyn’s face contorted, but his uncle’s countenance did not change. “Yet he knew where to find them.”

“You knew? Where is she?” Oberyn snarled. Myles glanced back at Elia, no doubt hoping she would not hear.

“Let it rest, Oberyn,” Doran said tiredly, looking at his uncle. If Rhaegar did tell Lewyn, it would be best for all of them if he continued to trust him. They would need another source they could say they used instead of Lewyn. Besides, if Elia spoke true, the spider had ears within the very walls. “He has his vows.”

“Fuck your vows,” Oberyn said immediately. “Where is she?” When their uncle did not answer quick enough, Oberyn added, “If you have any love for Elia, you would tell us where she is.”

“What?” 

The four men turned as one towards Elia, who called to them from her sickbed. He could see her right hand rubbing Rhaenys’s back. Lady Loreza was lying beside her, a book in her hands. “I heard my name,” she said with a quizzical smile.

“And that is all you will want to hear,” Doran told her. She did not need to be burdened with this, not now. She needed to rest and recover so that she could be crowned alongside Rhaegar. 

She rolled her eyes and made a shooing motion with her hand. “Bore me with your intrigues later.”

“As you say, your grace,” Myles said with a smile. Doran gave her a small bow and she laughed. When Doran turned back to the three men, he saw all their smiles faded. 

“See how she smiles, uncle?” Oberyn challenged. 

Their uncle looked at Oberyn warily. “You know I love Elia with all my heart. She is as a daughter to me. And if I told you where Lyanna Stark was, what good would that do Elia? What would you do, nephew? Send men to kill three of my brothers in white and the King’s mistress? Such folly would provoke the King. That does not help Elia, and would only get you killed.” 

“Rhaegar’s follies provoked first,” Myles said. 

“I have no wish to kill her. But am I to just watch idly as Rhaegar dishonors my house?” Oberyn demanded. 

Lewyn appraised Oberyn for a long moment. “You cannot let your anger cloud your judgment, Oberyn.” 

“I am as calm as ever, uncle.”

“To tell true, I do not even know where she is. Rhaegar did not trust me. Perhaps he was right not to,” Lewyn said, the faintest tinge of loathing in his voice. After a long pause, he looked back at them, his eyes sheepish. He spoke carefully then, choosing his words deliberately. “I only know Ser Gerold rode south, and Rhaegar must have ridden hard for King’s Landing, for when he returned he had two well bred sand steeds.”

Blood rushed from his face, from his hands, from his arms as everything went cold. All the anger towards Rhaegar he thought had subsided, he realized simply slept. It woke with a roar that pounded against his healing ribs.

“He took her to Dorne?” he heard Myles say. “He took his fucking mistress to Dorne to weather out their war?”

“Fucking Rhaegar. Fucking Dayne,” Oberyn spat. “I bet they took her to Starfall.”

He had shamed Elia once at Harrenhal, then deserting her at Dragonstone, and now Rhaegar had again. Dorne…

“Lady Ashara would have written Queen Elia.”

“Lady Ashara is ill with child. It is no surprise she would not have written. Fucking Rhaegar,” Oberyn said again. “Yet again, he has lived down to my expectations.”

“Kingsgrave is not far from Starfall. I could send word to my mother—“

“No,” Doran cut him off. “No, Myles. As my uncle said, we have nothing to gain by provoking the king, nor Starfall. Do not speak of this. I must think of what to do.”

“As you command, my prince,” Myles said. 

As Elia grew tired, her guests began to leave until only her brothers remained. Oberyn clearly still seethed at the news of Rhaegar’s newfound treachery. He paced up and down Elia’s chambers like a lion in a cage, his good hand flexing, no doubt itching for a spear. The maester came in to give Elia a nightly tonic to help her healing, which she drank without complaint, though the smell burnt at Doran’s nostrils. Doran took the chair beside her bed and stared into the fireplace, thinking deeply.

“You look weary,” she told him.

“It’s just my countenance. No need for alarm.”

She hummed and shut her eyes. “Tell me tomorrow. Not tonight.” 

She looked better than she had for days, yet Doran could tell even this night of cheer wore her out tremendously. Would she be well enough in time for the coronation? He scolded himself, knowing there was no need worrying about what he could not control. How he loathed the feeling of reaching for what he could not grasp, always reaching…

But Rhaegar had taken Lyanna Stark to Dorne. That he could grasp, and must. He now could re-establish the Knights of the Wells, perhaps form a net that would catch the girl. Arthur Dayne and Oswell Whent were as lost as Lyanna Stark, and Oberyn may have been right to think they made their way to Starfall. Ser Arthur was Rhaegar’s closest friend, Elia had said so before. Myles suggested that his mother deal with Starfall, but that would not do. The Lady of Kingsgrave was his father’s sister, but she was no Martell. Sunspear must deal with Starfall. But even if Lyanna Stark was there, was he to demand Lord Dayne to break guest right and hand her over, as Aerys had asked of Jon Arryn? No, that would not do. If not by force, then perhaps he could get her by guile. He needed her in his care, not Rhaegar’s. Once she was in his control, he could trade her and Stark’s sword to broker a peace with the North. Send her back to where she came; that would be best for all. 

But the three Kingsguard were in Starfall, and they would not give her up without a fight, even if Lord Dayne was willing. He wondered if it would be possible to convince the Stark girl to escape from Starfall, if he sent people to help her do so. Oberyn may have killed her brother, but Aerys killed both her father and brother. He could send his cousin Manfrey—but on what precedent? Perhaps if he was escorting Mellario, Arianne, and Quentyn to King’s Landing. Starfall was not directly on course, but they could stop at many castles and bring several highborn ladies to serve Elia now that she was queen.

He rubbed his eyes tiredly. Of all places, why would Rhaegar take his mistress to Dorne? Though perhaps he should be asking why Rhaegar took her at all, and hid from the world. Did he know he was starting a war, and did not wish to partake? Rhaegar never lacked for mysteries. One moment he seemed a man with a thousand secrets and a hundred plans, the next a blind fool stumbling in the dark. The only thing Doran knew for sure was that Rhaegar never lost the ability to surprise. After their conversation, Doran finally felt like he had witnessed a flickering candle in the depths of Rhaegar’s mind, but before he could figure it out, Rhaegar surprised him again. What was the phrase Rhaegar used? Oh yes, he thought, remembering. It had been a curious phrase…

“Elia…who is the Prince the was Promised?”

Oberyn’s footsteps stopped. Elia opened her dark eyes and searched his face. “It is a…how…why do you know this?”

“I spoke with Rhaegar today.” Elia’s face grew taut at the mention of her husband’s name, but Doran pressed on. “It was a title he gave to Aegon.” 

“It is a prophecy…he is to be born of the line of Aerys and Rhaella. King Jaehaerys heard it. That is why they wed all those years ago, though they never loved each other.” Elia’s voice dropped off abruptly.

“Aegon is only a babe. What does the prophecy say? Why is Rhaegar so sure it is Aegon and not his brother Viserys…or himself?” Doran did not know what was worse, having to endure counseling a king with a head full of prophecies, or having to endure watching that king fill his son’s head with prophecies.

“A comet,” Elia whispered. Her eyes flickered and she looked down at her hands. Oberyn hovered at the end of the bed, his arms crossed, drinking in every word, and from his face he did not like the taste. 

Her voice was so soft Doran almost could not hear her. “It lit the sky overhead when he came to me…the gods placed a comet in the sky and Aegon in my womb. The maesters say you cannot know for weeks if a child grows inside your belly, but I knew…I felt it, even while the comet still tore apart the sky. Aegon’s herald.”

Doran said nothing. Elia had painted a vivid picture in his mind, and it was one he would sooner forget. He did not know what bothered him more, that Rhaegar fucked his sister and then all Dorne, or that he dressed all his fuckings up like romance. He looked at Oberyn, whose face betrayed no emotion but rapt attention.

“And this prophecy…what does it say, Elia?” Oberyn asked.

Elia shut her eyes as if the effort of remembering cost dearly. “I do not know…no, wait…there was a song. He said Aegon’s song was one of ice and fire.”

“What does that mean?” Doran asked, looking to Oberyn, who only shrugged and shook his head. He turned back to Elia. “Did you hear this song?”

“No…I do not know…he said there must be one more. Then he left.” 

“One more what?” Oberyn asked slowly, as if he almost did not want to know.

“Child,” Elia whispered. “The dragon has three heads. Rhaenys, Aegon—“

“Visenya,” Elia and Oberyn murmured in unison. Oberyn’s dark eyes turned from Elia to Doran. Elia would never bear another child and live. Was that why Rhaegar had left her, just after Aegon was born? To father his Visenya? That was madness, and yet, perhaps not. He had a hundred more questions to ask her, but one look at her face and he thought it would be more prudent to wait. Before he could say another word, Oberyn broke the silence.

“Sleep, Elia. Your brothers will watch over you.” He went to her side and kissed her gently on the forehead and she smiled. Then he returned to his pacing.

Darkness enveloped the room as Oberyn snuffed out all the candles one by one until the only light remaining came from the crackling fire in the hearth. Doran watched the greedy fire burn, lost in his thoughts. After awhile Oberyn stopped pacing to stare out Elia’s window, whether at the stars above or the city below Doran could not say. He was glad for the silence. One look at Oberyn and he could see his anger still boiled beneath the surface even as he tried to lock it away. Doran had more to think about than he could—Lyanna Stark’s whereabouts and Elia’s health, Rhaegar’s book and Aegon’s prophecy, Tywin’s arrival and Lonmouth’s appointment and sending for Mellario and his uncle’s white cloak, Aerys, Jon Arryn, Oberyn—he shut his eyes and rubbed his face tiredly, wishing for nothing more than sleep.

“Doran?”

He jerked his attention from the fire to his brother, standing at the end of Elia’s bed.

“I asked what Rhaegar said.”

Doran recounted his conversation as Oberyn listened to him with the same intensity Rhaegar had listened, though with far more comments. When Doran told him that Rhaegar meant to pen his own history, Oberyn’s reacted just as Doran expected, determined to write his own, and in his words, far less flowery version. When Doran finished, Oberyn gave a dry smile and said, “It sounds as if you charmed him, Doran. Be careful, he might steal off with you in the night.”

“Mellario would not mind. Anything to be rid of me,” he replied, only half in jest.

“He thinks you are charming because if he talks to you he does not have to talk to me. What did Elia call it? Grass and viper, yes, that was it. Even still, what a poor excuse for a man. Rhaegar the ‘Last Dragon’? That seems hardly a compliment. By his follies he almost was."

“He did not say it like a compliment,” Doran said, rubbing his eyes again. “More like…a burden.”

“Of his own making,” Oberyn retorted.

Some burdens, yes, but not all, Doran thought. Rhaegar had never chosen to be heir to Westeros, no more than Doran had chosen to be heir of Sunspear. That was the gods’ work alone, though whether wisdom or folly, Doran could not say. Rhaegar had spoken true: it was a heavy burden, one that Oberyn as second son would never understand…

“Will Elia be strong enough in two months?” Doran asked his brother as he looked at Elia, already asleep between them.

“I think so, if she keeps hope. She grows happier each day she learns her friends are here, or returning. This night was the most guests she entertained. Yesterday uncle came, and Ser Jaime Lannister.”

Doran gave his brother a questioning look.

“I will not deny him. A bond has grown between them, one forged in wildfire,” Oberyn said. “I find the youth rather endearing, in a haughty sort of way. A little toy knight made of gold, with a few dents if you look closely. I cannot say he enjoyed my company when he came to see Elia, but he certainly lacks the cold courtesy of his uncle.”

Of course he did. Ser Jaime had not been at Harrenhal when Oberyn had refused to let Kevan Lannister leave after Myles Mooton crowned Rhaegar king. And what had that gained them? Nothing. In his paranoia Aerys finally worried correctly, and Elia paid the price. 

“We cannot go on like this,” Doran said, his eyes on Elia. Even while she slept she did not seem at peace. Hardly a minute passed that she did not twitch in pain. “We must be more careful. More plans and less whims.”

“We? Say what you will, Doran. You want me to be more careful.”

“I am saying ‘we’,” Doran assured him, his voice sharper than he meant to make it. He leaned back in the chair, trying to become more comfortable. “If I had been awake, perhaps we could have forestalled Rhaegar’s crowning—“

“How could we have planned to stop a crossbow bolt hitting you?” Oberyn said in disbelief. As if on cue, the wound jerked at Doran.

He rubbed his shoulder. “Perhaps not, but we made many enemies when you tried to keep Rhaegar’s crown a secret—“

“—So I should have done nothing,” Oberyn said scathingly. “And let Elia fend for herself against Mad Aerys.”

“Aerys burned her anyway,” Doran said in exasperation. “All you did was aggravate half of Westeros, not only the new king but his new Hand as well. I am not saying you should have turned coldly from Elia’s plight, but you should have thought through it more. This is no game, Oberyn. Dornish lives are at stake, and I am not here to play games we cannot win.”

“Elia is queen. The cards are dealt…we are playing, whether you wish it or no. This game will not wait for you to get a grasp on the rules.”

“We need Lord Tywin, Oberyn. He could be our greatest ally. If Rhaegar gives Tyrell any power, he will oppose our every want. We need Tywin Lannister. Rhaegar will listen to him in a way he will not listen to us.”

The firelight shone on Oberyn’s face turning his features sharper and more angular. He frowned and glanced at Elia before turning back to Doran. He sucked the inside of his cheek as he bit back his temper. “And what do you suggest to make Lord Tywin our friend?”

“I am not one for entertaining…if Elia were well, I would have her host us. It is far more impressive that the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms invites Ser Kevan to dine with her than a Prince of Sunspear. But I suppose I must host him to calm the waters.” 

“I am not one to grovel and beg pardons.”

“Of course not. I will offer apologies on your behalf.” _Grass and viper, as Elia had said._ If it worked with Rhaegar, why not with Lord Tywin?

“How thoughtful of you,” Oberyn smiled sardonically. “Elia has befriended his golden son and now you will do the same to his brother. But is Lord Tywin we want.” 

“It is Lord Tywin we want,” Doran agreed. “He has a daughter. She might be in need of…befriending.”

Doran waited with baited breath for the reply. Oberyn just stared at him. Then he burst into a roll of laughter. “I’ll fuck her if you want, but I don’t think that will make Tywin Lannister any friendlier to me,” he managed through his mirth.

“Lord Tywin would make a formidable father-in-law.”

Oberyn laughed again, though this time Doran could hear a hint of annoyance in it. “Mother certainly thought so. But Tywin Lannister refused her. I doubt he thought me worthy of his precious daughter.”

“Are we not greater now?”

Oberyn gave a mirthless laugh. “I am not marrying her, Doran.”

“It would be a small sacrifice.” Doran had made larger sacrifices for Oberyn, a sacrifice that cost not only Quentyn, but perhaps Mellario as well. Mellario’s love, at least. Oberyn was in his debt, whether he remembered it or not. “One to not only make amends with Tywin Lannister but to gain a powerful ally—“

Oberyn cut him off sharply, all laughter gone now that he realized Doran was not dropping the issue. “—Save your breath. I will not marry her or anyone, not Darry’s niece or Lady Wyl or the Whent of Harrenhal or Hightower girl, not for you, not for mother—”

“—Not even for Elia?”

He swayed backwards slightly, as if the words knocked him off balance. It had always been Elia, had it not? Elia could always bridge every gap between them. Oberyn fell silent, looking at their sister asleep between them. She looked like she was sleeping more soundly now. Doran watched his brother carefully. Darkness shrouded his face, but Doran could see that he was biting on the inside of his cheek again, thinking deeply, or bracing himself to do something he desperately did not want to do…

“Damn you,” he mumbled half-heartedly, and Doran suppressed a relieved smile. Oberyn shook his head and walked over towards the remnants of their libations, poured himself a healthy glass of wine, and drank it. He repeated this until he ran out of drink, but he found some of the unfinished cups and downed the dregs.

“A toast to Cersei Lannister, I suppose,” Doran told Oberyn as he finished the last of uncle’s cup. “I hear she is very beautiful, if that is any comfort.”

Oberyn paused, his back turned to Doran, his hand outstretched before him as he reached for another glass. He stood as still as the stones beneath his feet, which Doran found rather remarkable given how much wine he had just drank. After a minute, Doran finally said his name tentatively.

He did not jerk at the sound of his name. He lowered his arm and turned slowly to face Doran. The dancing fire cast shadows on his face, but no darkness could hide the unbridled rage hewn into his features. For the first time, Doran saw no trace of his rash but well-meaning young brother. The Red Viper stood before him, and all at once Doran understood why men feared Oberyn.

“Fuck. You.”

He did not shout. The words came through gritted teeth, neither quiet nor loud. They shook as he uttered them, not the way Mellario’s angry words shook with tears, but as if his whole body shook with rage. Doran stared at him open mouthed and utterly perplexed. 

“This is not a game, yes? Fuck you, Doran,” he spat. “I know you and your games. Why should I make amends for aggravating Tywin Lannister? I didn’t. _We_ did.” 

Doran only stared at him.

“At Harrenhal—you may not have given me the order from your sickbed, but you wanted it done. You made no move to stop me, and we both know you could have. Grass and viper, and we have been playing. But you cannot use me for my fangs then blame me when someone gets bit. You said you needed me in Harrenhal.”

Doran’s mouth was so dry it was hard to form the words. “I do.” 

“Then play your games on someone who you did not write the rules with.”

“Playing?” Doran said in disbelief. “I am not playing you, Oberyn. I am asking you, where another man might use force to remind his younger brother of his duty. “

Oberyn threw his head back and laughed coldly. The drink was hitting him now, Doran could tell. “Asking me? Can you not hear yourself? You're too...kind to use force, is that it? Is that what you think? Instead you wield your tongue like a blade, but that does not make you sharp of mind. Just because you are firstborn and mother's favorite and never fucked a whore or killed a man in anger does not mean you are wise. So don't use Elia to guilt me into marrying anybody's daughter because I am not the one who went on a tour of Essos and decided to marry the first fucking bitch I saw. A great match. Very helpful to Elia. And you. It's worked out so favorably. So do not try to get me to marry for Elia when you haven't.”

Silence fell. Oberyn’s chest rose and fell, his teeth bared, his face a mixture of fury and triumph. Doran’s heart beat a war drum against his ribs. They stared at each other, each hoping the other would quiver and apologize. If he was as reckless as Oberyn, why should he apologize first? Why would he ever apologize to Oberyn when he was the one always picking up after his messes? Oberyn had never thanked him, never apologized. Not even after Quentyn.

“You go too far, Oberyn,” he said quietly. _Just as you always do._ He turned back to the fire, his entire body burning with anger.

“Would you even listen if I did not?” Oberyn said, stubborn and unrepentant as ever.

A log in the fire cracked and broke, sending sparks into the air as it fell. Doran did not even turn to look at his brother. “I’m done listening.”

“Well, I’m not done talking. You said you needed me. You said we would rule together. So remove your hand from my throat, please, and your head out of your own ass before you get us all killed.”

“You should leave before I grow angry,” he said, still watching the fire.

“I don—“

Doran leapt from the chair. It skidded along the floor so loud it interrupted his brother. He stood for a moment facing Oberyn, wanting nothing more than to knock him flat on his back. Then he turned on his heel and strode out. 

As the door shut behind him, he heard Elia’s groggy voice. “Oberyn?”

His voice was so gentle that Doran stopped seething for the briefest moment. “I’m here, Elia. I’m here…”

Doran turned around to see the flickering light of the fire in Elia’s room just as the door swung shut with a loud thump. Doran stared at the door that hid his brother and sister, and he was startled to realize that tangled up in his anger and worry and guilt was something else, something so unfortunately familiar. All his life he had been far away, but it was not until that moment in the hall of Maegor’s Holdfast that Doran Martell understood how truly lonely he was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What can I say, I love writing the martell bros argue. It’s just too easy with their same goals and very different personalities to not have fun. This for me is peak Doran Martell, a guy who loves his family very dearly, and is not totally aware that he is manipulating them, or that political lies and sacrifices may be hard for them to swallow with his love. In canon, Arianne has such an estranged relationship with Doran and it almost feels like he doesn’t believe it, because in his head she is still the little girl who runs to him when she skins her knee. He can’t fathom that lying to Arianne and keeping her in the dark for her safety would cause both personal and political problems. So here, Doran is trying to manipulate Oberyn but he isn’t even totally aware that is what he is doing. And Oberyn calls him out on his bullshit. But as like many arguments go, this one did not really accomplish anything except to drive a wedge deeper. What Oberyn is attempting to say is that Doran thinks he is better than Oberyn and so is manipulating him because he doesn’t respect him, but how he goes about it is a rather incisive list of reasons Doran isn’t all that great. And here, I finally get to one of the defining traits of canon Doran: loneliness. Now, a lot of Doran's loneliness in canon is because of a)loss and b)estrangement. But in this AU, everyone is still alive, yet when it comes down to it, Oberyn and Elia are inseparable and he will always be on the outside looking in, and his relationship with Mellario is so estranged. Doran I think embodies Ned's "some secrets are too dangerous to share, even with those you love and trust" and Stannis's "King's have no friends, only subjects and enemies." Which leads to a bunch of self-isolation. We can only hope he learns from what Oberyn said, and does not isolate himself from those he loves...
> 
> Now, the martell kids marriages are all over the place, seeing as Elia gets literally the best marriage option possible and doran and Oberyn just do whatever they want, so I think it would make sense that now Doran is seeing the need for some politically advantageous marriages, but alas, he is already wed. And here, Oberyn is calling Doran out for what he sees as hypocrisy, that “hey when I went to essos I fucked around but at least I didn’t marry some random girl and yet you think I’m the impulsive one” but what I want to point out is that Doran is not impulsive—no more than Rhaegar is. I don’t think Doran marrying Mellario or Rhaegar absconding with Lyanna were impulsive decisions. I would guess that Doran and Rhaegar spent a lot of time thinking over those decisions. Just because you think something through, doesn’t mean you actually consider all the consequences or make the best choice. 
> 
> Now, also, there is no evidence in canon that Rhaegar ever stopped thinking Aegon was the prince that was promised. He said that and then said there must be another, so I am going with that he always saw lyanna’s future child as the third head of the dragon, whatever that means. And remember, I’m going by books not show, so you’ll have to wait till Lyanna chapters to see exactly how Rhaegar/Lyanna went down…
> 
> And for Lewyn, we got to keep testing these Kingsguard vows, don’t we?


	26. Rhaella

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I know she is proud. How not? What else was left her but pride?”
> 
> _A Dance With Dragons,_ Tyrion VI

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rhaella chapter, who you know, didn't have a great life, so Aerys and his grossness will be mentioned, but nothing explicit and it is all in terms of brief ptsd-like things.

Confinement. 

Rhaella could hardly think of a better word to describe her life as she lay upon the birthing bed, pain searing so great she thought the child had ripped her into two. Every woman’s life was confined to a small cup that she must make herself small enough to fit inside, otherwise she would be upturned upon the floor. As a child, Rhaella had thought herself a princess, but she discovered soon enough that princesses were women too. When her father married her to Aerys, she dreamed of when they would rule together like the dragonlords of old. But Rhaella learned quickly that Aerys was no Aegon the Conqueror, and she was not Rhaenys or Visenya. In her girlhood that had caused most her tears—not how cruel Aerys grew, but how frightened he made her.

He did not frighten her now, no more than the birthing bed did. Seven children she had brought into the world, yet only two sons remained to her. Death and despair had been her constant companions since her youth, and over the years she had grown used to praying not only to the mother but the stranger as well. He had come to her in a dream the night before her wedding, a faceless terror that sucked out her very breath. Now she welcomed him like an old friend. It was a queer comfort to know he was never far off. He was her truest friend, her true Kingsguard, even her midwife, taking all her children from her womb to the grave. 

A maid dabbed her face with a damp cloth as midwives and maesters muttered. 

“What is wrong?” She asked through gritted teeth, wiping her sweaty hair from her face. She had lost so many children, what was one more? But this one, she had not expected to lose this one. The gods had told her. The stranger had come to her one moonless night, and when he kissed her he did not demand the fruit in her womb as payment. He had come to her many nights, first in dreams and then in waking. The memory was seared into her mind as a brand upon flesh. She had taken a knife to her breast, defiled and shamed and desperate, but when the knife pricked her skin a cold hand took her wrist. 

“The blood of the dragon does not fear,” the voice told her, a voice but a soft breath of wind. She could still remember the cold breath upon her hand, how strange it was to Aerys’s hot scent. Cold enough to still her heart, but instead she found herself oddly refreshed.

“I am not afraid,” she had told the hidden face. “I am not afraid to die.”

It had been a lie, a lie he saw through easily. She feared Aerys, and to be alone with him, and to be forced to endure pain and shame all her life. To be abused, and tossed aside, ignored, and abused again…

“I want to die on my terms. Not to fear death each time he comes to me.”

“My terms,” the cloaked stranger said, licking the drop of blood from her breast.

But now the stranger was stranger no longer. He visited on sleepless nights, to crown her Queen of the Underworlds, to fill her womb with his cold seed. When the children of these unions rotted and died she knew the stranger had taken them, his own children, to help him guide the living to the halls of the heavens and pits of the hells. Yet when he came to her, she did not turn him away. After so much blood and pain and death, she still prayed every seed of Aerys’s would quicken in her stomach. To bear a child was a dangerous thing, but Aerys did not touch her when she carried. For those blessed months she could escape him.

“A girl, your grace,” Grand Maester Pycelle said in regal tones.

“A princess,” Rhaella corrected him, still breathless. The birthing bed had always been a challenge, and now, like her beauty and innocence, the strength of youth had faded.

She was so weak she could hardly hold the child, let alone nurse her. The fever came within an hour, and soon her head was thick with fog. One thought sustained her: Rhaegar. He needed her. He was king now, and Aerys would never touch her again. _She was free. She was free. She was free._

When she awoke, the dark and damp room of her confinement was empty and silent, save for one cloaked figure standing beside her bed. The candles flicked and died as he moved past them. She could feel the cold chill that followed him, emanating from his very heart. Her breath caught in her throat.

“Come with me,” he whispered, a hand extended toward her.

She had been holding her breath—how long had she been holding her breath? Her breath escaped with a giddy laugh. Tears of relief came to her eyes, but she did not hide them, not from him. He had heard her prayers, the ones she had whispered as she knelt before him, as he held her in his arms, and finally, after all this time, he had listened.

“I am ready for you, Light of the Earth,” he said. His face was still shrouded in darkness, but he reached his hand to touch her silver hair. She could hear someone whispering in the dark behind him. One voice, two, more than she could count, a choir of voices that spoke in hushed tones, as if afraid to disturb her. “Your children call to you. Can you hear them?”

She blinked the tears from her eyes. “Yes. Yes, I can hear them. Shaena. Daeron…”

“Mother…” she heard faintly.

A sudden wail swallowed the room and all the whispering voices. For a moment she did not know what could make such a terrible racket. Then she remembered. Her babe, not a day old. Rhaella blinked and sat up. 

“She will live,” she said.

“She will,” Death agreed.

“She will need me.”

“She will. All your children need you.”

All her children. Viserys needed her, he could never bear to be apart from her for long—and Rhaegar, Rhaegar needed her. He was king now, he would need her more than ever. She looked at the shape before her, into the void beneath the hood. It held no horror for her now.

“And you? Do you need me?” she asked.

“I need nothing. But I do want.”

She fell silent, but the whispers did not return. “Will they wait for me?”

The hooded figure nodded.

“Will you wait for me?”

The stranger froze. As the minutes passed the darkness around him blurred, and it was difficult to see where his cloak ended and night began. She blinked and reached out a hand, expected to grab cloth and cold flesh, but she felt nothing but air.

For the first time in fifteen years, Rhaella Targaryen woke with the rising sun, and was out of bed before the light had filled her room. She had been in hiding for long enough. Rhaegar had broken her chains, and she was ready to take flight. Her maids hurried around her, chattering their worries like sparrows about a nest, urging her to lay back down. 

“No—no, I will not rest,” she insisted as she hobbled to the window. If her womb were not so raw she would leap and dance.

“What do you need, your grace?”

_I need to get away from this room, she thought. I need to see the open sky. I need to see my husband in chains, and my son upon my father’s throne. I need to see Viserys._ “I am a queen. I need to go to court,” she said simply.

When she did not relent, one of her insipid—but well-meaning, she could grudgingly admit—maids had rushed to fetch Grand Maester Pycelle. He forced her back into bed when he informed her Rhaegar had called a small council meeting, and could not be disturbed by her anyways. She decided to wait on Rhaegar, and not rush to seek him out. She needed to know what had happened, everything, all of it. She was starved for information, interaction, inspiration. She needed to know it all before she found Rhaegar. She needed to have more to offer than a mother’s tender arms. 

After Rhaegar’s birth she had called in half her ladies, eager to show them the new prince and to hear the court gossip she had missed, but that was a different time, and she a different woman. What few ladies she had lasted only a season, or however long their husbands kept Aerys’s favor. She did not know them, she did not love them, and she certainly did not trust them. 

But now that Rhaegar was king, she could have her own court again. She thought of the companions of her early days as queen: Joanna Lannister, Cassana Estermont, Loreza Martell, Bethany Redwyne, Minisa Whent, and a dozen others. _All dead but her,_ she thought with a vicious pride. She remembered the looks of pity on their faces when Aerys pranced his mistresses in front of her or made a fool of himself atop the Iron Throne. Cassana Estermont would take her hand gently while Joanna Lannister would whisper some scathing comment about one of Aerys’s whores. But the pity was always there, and Rhaella despised it. How poor they thought her—their Queen—because she did not have a husband who loved her. It was her time to pity them, cold and dead while she was queen. Her son was king, and their lines had faded. Cassana’s sons were ash and bone, and Joanna’s sons would never wed and inherit their father’s seat. 

Rhaella looked out her window to the city below. Thousands of tents had sprung up outside the city in a swath of color. She looked toward the harbor as the morning sun stretched its fingers across the water. She could see fishing boats and trade galleys scattered sparsely across the harbor. She could see five war galleys from the Royal Fleet, including the _Queen Rhaella._ She smiled slightly when she saw it, but her face fell when she recognized the ship beside it, the _Lord Steffon._ All of a sudden her righteous anger dissipated as she thought of her cousin, with his thick black hair and bright blue eyes that shone brightly when he spoke of his wife and sons. His sons had his eyes, she remembered. Rhaegar had slain the older one on the field of battle, but her maids had told her the younger two still held Storm’s End against Lord Tyrell. _If they surrender, they should be spared, if only for Steffon and Cassana’s sake._ Stannis and Renly, Steffon had named them. The older may continue in his brother’s foolish rebellion, but the younger must be spared the ax. He was only a boy. Rhaegar would listen to her. He had always been gentle, even as a child. 

She would go to him after he had finished his small council, she decided. Who filled his small council now? Who was in this city that Rhaegar could trust, besides her? The lickspittles Aerys kept he must have done away with, surely. Half the realm had fought Rhaegar on the Trident, and Aerys’s court could not be trusted. Not only courtiers, but new guards would be needed. She must keep Viserys close. She had always kept him close, except when Aerys was around. She could not let men smuggle him from King’s Landing to make war upon his brother. 

“Where is Prince Viserys?” she turned from the window to ask one of her maids. “Bring him to me.”

The maid gave a meek curtsy and made to hurry off, but Rhaella called after her. Princess Elia—she needed to speak to Elia. Elia would tell her all she wished to know. Rhaella had no mother, no sisters, no cousins, but when Rhaegar married Elia she finally had a daughter. Elia was queen now, no longer just Princess of Sunspear and Lady of Dragonstone. The small diadem her maid placed on her forehead touched light as a feather now. Finally, she would have an equal woman at court, and her dear Elia could now be daughter and sister and friend. “And Queen Elia, where is she?”

“Abed, your grace,” her maid whispered. “She was gravely injured when your son claimed the Iron Throne.”

Rhaella turned abruptly. “What? What do you mean?”

She did not mean to raise her voice, but the blood of the dragon does not beg pardons. The maid quivered under her stare. “She was—his grace—your husband—I mean, King Aerys—“

Rhaella cut her off. “Speak plainly, girl.” 

The maid’s eyes darted down. “She was hurt, your grace. Burned on King Aerys’s orders.”

She thought of Lord Stark’s twisted face as he screamed and melted in his armor, how the plumes of smoke had burned her eyes, how she could taste him in the air…

“She…she still lives?” She could feel the smoke in her mouth now, burnt on the back of her throat.

“Ser Jaime of the Kingsguard pulled her from the pyre, and opened the gate to let the Last Dragon in the keep.”

Rhaella felt herself nod, and she grabbed the windowsill for support. The pain in her womb tore at her viciously, as if the child still tried to claw its way out. Her maid reached forward to help her, but Rhaella straightened herself up. “Why did you not tell me this?”

“Forgive me, your grace. It was Grand Maester Pycelle. He did not wish to upset you while you were still with child—“

She held up a hand to shoo her maids from the room before she collapsed in a chair. Elia, her sweet daughter, burnt at Aerys’s hand…

She gazed out the window, her breath growing shallower as she stared into the sky. She could feel Aerys’s hands upon her, his nails, his teeth…she shut her eyes and whispered a prayer to the stranger. _Please. Let her live. Do not take her because I refused you. Westeros is wide enough for two queens._ When she finished, she found her breath had slowed. 

And Ser Jaime had saved her. Joanna’s son. Perhaps Rhaella had been too harsh in her remembrances. She remembered his face as he stood before the Iron Throne, his bright green eyes turning duller as the months passed. He had not stirred for Rickard or Brandon Stark, but he had stirred for Elia. How much he looked like Joanna—his eyes at least, his eyes full of pity when he looked at her after one of Aerys’s visits. How many times had Ser Jaime stood silently as Aerys had his way with her, but when Aerys first turned to Elia he would break all vows to protect her? What had Elia done to deserve his undying loyalty that she had not? Why had Ser Jaime not stirred to save her? She felt hot tears spring to her eyes as the scars Aerys had left seared just as the days he made them. Why had Rhaegar not stirred to save her?

She rubbed the tears from her eyes. She could not think that way: it was unfair to Elia and Rhaegar. She was saved now; she must not think of her life before again. She pushed Aerys from her mind. I am free now, she scolded herself. I am free. 

“Your grace?” A tentative voice said. Rhaella looked up and saw one of her maids had returned. “King Rhaegar is in his solar now expecting you.”

Rhaella rose swiftly, readjusted her crown, and swept out of the room. Her womb ached as she walked, but she pressed forward. She could rest later, after she had seen Rhaegar. 

Ser Jaime stood in white outside Rhaegar’s solar, a beacon of light against the dark oak of the door. The sight of him ignited her anger towards him again. She looked pointedly away from his gaze, hating him, hating that he had not saved her, hating herself. The royal steward opened the door and announced her presence. At the sound of her name she froze, terrified that in this chamber Aerys was waiting for her, ready to accuse her of betraying him for their son. She pressed forward, hoping Ser Jaime did not see her hesitation. He would pity her, and she did not want to be pitied ever again.

To her relief, her husband was nowhere to be found. Rhaegar waited for her alone. He looked just as he always did, with fine long hair and deep purple eyes that softened when he saw her. The only thing that had changed was the crown atop his head. “Mother,” he said, immediately standing up and striding toward her. As the door shut behind her, she took him into her arms. He stood half a head taller than her as he embraced her. He was king now, but even still he did not shun her embrace, and she loved him all the more for it. She held him fiercely, and he did not attempt to break out of her arms. 

When she finally released him, she put a hand to his clean-shaven face and said, “My son. I am so full of joy to see you. And so proud. King Rhaegar,” she said, taking her hand from his face and bowing her head reverently. 

“Mother,” he said quietly. She raised her head to look at him. Up close he looked as strong as handsome as ever, but she could see the weight of the kingdom on his brow.

She nodded at his crown. “It suits you, your grace. The honor of Westeros is in your hands now.”

He nodded solemnly and bent down slightly so she could kiss his forehead. 

“I am glad to see you, mother. But a maester would say you should be abed.”

“I listen to kings, not maesters.”

“I will not pretend I will send you away,” he conceded. He put a hand on her shoulder. “I am glad you are here, mother. Tomorrow I will meet my new sister, but today I would speak with you.”

Rhaella had to hide a smile as she took his face in her hands again. Most men sought to impress their fathers, but it had been her that Rhaegar had always run to with his victories. “Then let us speak, your grace. You have my ear, as always.”

“I met this morn with my small council,” Rhaegar said, turning away from her to sit down. “I have half a hundred men who want a seat. You know court, mother, and I would hear your counsel.”

She took a seat beside her son. “And your small council now?”

“Grand Maester Pycelle and Ser Gerold, of course. Lord Varys and Lord Tywin have proved themselves capable, and will keep their old positions. The princes of Sunspear have seats, as does Ser Richard Lonmouth, as Commander of the City Watch.”

Lord Tywin was a formidable hand, she had to admit, but Pycelle was Lord Tywin’s lickspittle far more than he ever was Aerys’s. Giving both Dornish princes seats gave Sunspear one too many voices in her opinion, but Rhaegar could not take them back now. That was the least of her concerns.

“The spider is no friend to you, Rhaegar. He whispered in your father’s ear of your many treasons to poison him against you. You should take his head, not his counsel.”

“He knows I have no reason to trust him. He seeks to win my favor now,” Rhaegar held up the book that he clearly had just been reading. _The Rise and Fall of the Valyrian Empire,_ she read on the cover. “He has found some other texts I am keen to read.”

“I hope you do not sell your trust so cheaply. Your father saw enemies in every shadow, but some shadows hide daggers.” 

“Alone, Varys is harmless. He has no land, no titles, no armies. Only little birds. He speaks of more than books to gain my favor. He came to me with a tale, one where Prince Oberyn seeks to find Lady Lyanna.”

She frowned. She thought of the child Princess Loreza had brought to court all those years ago when Maelys Blackfyre threatened Sunspear. Prince Oberyn had been little more than a babe in arms. She knew little of the man he had become, save for a reputation that reminded her more of Loreza than Elia. Yet Elia spoke of him often, and fondly. “And how can you know that he does not mean to drip poison into your own ear, just as he did to your father?"

"Prince Oberyn has poison enough without Lord Varys's help," Rhaegar replied, a flash of annoyance crossing his face. "Prince Oberyn asked me if I meant to keep Lyanna away from court. It seems he found my answer unsatisfactory and wishes to find her himself."

"And Varys...did he say Prince Oberyn acts alone, or does his brother know his plans?"

Rhaegar folded his hands in his lap thoughtfully. "He said Prince Oberyn asked him to find Lyanna, and his little birds have seen Dornishmen asking all manner of questions to those they think may know. If it comforts you, know that my own men have told me as much when I asked."

"And Prince Doran...does he know his brother is trying to hold Lady Lyanna against you? He may put a stop to it if he knew."

"Perhaps,” Rhaegar considered, though he looked skeptical. “Prince Doran chaffed at Elia being held hostage. He suggested Viserys live in Sunspear. It seems now he would prefer Lyanna."

Such was the price of war, Rhaella thought. Most like Prince Doran would not have marched North unless Elia had been hostage. If Rhaella had ruled instead of Aerys, she would not have threatened Prince Lewyn so openly. Sweet words and a strong fist, that was far more effective than anything spit Aerys had dribbled when he flew into a frenzied rage.

"Prince Doran would never consider forcibly seizing Lady Lyanna to imprison her in Sunspear. His sister is Queen, his nephew a prince, and he has a seat on the council. Why would he throw that all away for petty vengeance? If what Varys says is true, Prince Oberyn may be plotting alone. He is a dangerous man, and not prone to politicking or patience. He slew Lord Yronwood in a fit of lust and anger, and left Prince Doran to make amends."

"Whether Prince Doran knows is neither here nor there. Lyanna is safe with Ser Arthur. I will send for her soon, and she will be safe here."

"You must wait until the Red Viper's anger has cooled, your grace. When Elia heals and he no longer fears for her life."

"His blood runs hot and will never cool,” Rhaegar said. He looked at his folded hands for a moment, thinking. “But perhaps you are right. He burns to avenge Elia, and he is not alone. Prince Doran, Lords Manwoody and Fowler and Blackmont, Vaith and Qorglye," her son sighed tiredly, leaning forward to put his head in his hands. "They would have me hold a trial and execute my own father."

"You cannot," she said immediately. She thought of Aerys's body, empty and lifeless like an empty husk. He would never be able to touch her again. "Whatever crimes your father has done, he was still a king, anointed by the gods. It is a terrible precedent to kill a king. You may as well invite evil into your court. Kingslayer—kinslayer—that is what they will call you. It is too high a price to appease your queen's countrymen."

"Ser Richard agrees. He says my father is the only wall between the Dornishmen and I, and should I break it, they will turn their anger towards me in full."

"Towards you? You did not burn Princess Elia. That was your father," she said firmly, but her son did not reply. She put her hand on his. "You never mistreated Elia. She should be thankful."

"It is not Elia I need to appease. It is her brothers," he said, his mouth a thin line.

She took a deep breath. "I shall be frank with you, Rhaegar. It is no great thing for a woman to watch her husband take a mistress, but there are far more terrible things a husband can do." 

Rhaegar looked at her with his intelligent eyes, listening intently. He had always been so perfect. From his first breath he had been so perfect. Her son, her son in a way he would never be Aerys's. He had always listened to her, out of respect, not pity. Aerys had taken everyone from her and left her locked alone with a string of pregnancies and children too weak to live. But not Rhaegar. Rhaegar had loved her from the first, quietly loved her in a way that did not end with violence. And he needed her. He had needed her as a boy, and now that he was king he needed her more than ever. 

"It is no matter of Queen Elia's kin whom you choose to find solace in, no more than it is your concern who they take to mistress. When their mother, Princess Loreza, waited on me in King's Landing she told me her husband had a whole slew of mistresses, many whom she befriended and kept in court even after he died. She had her own lover, a woman if you believe, but that did not stop Lord Vaith from pursuing her. He even sent gifts to her lover," Rhaella said, still finding the tale hard to believe. "I hear Prince Oberyn is much same. Their ways are not our ways. It is very self-righteous indeed for him to take his own mistresses and yet forbid you from yours."

"She's no mistress, mother," Rhaegar said softly. "She is Queen of Love and Beauty, and mother of my child."

Rhaella stopped. Bastards were dangerous things, Daemon Blackfyre and all his ilk had proven that. And a bastard with two highborn parents, why, that was quite another problem. "Your grace, more lords than the Dornish Princes may not take kindly to having a bastard at court."

"She is no bastard, mother. I married Lyanna before the heart tree on the God's Eye."

All warmth fled from Rhaella's body. She suddenly became aware of the aching in her abdomen, so severe her vision almost fell black. "What?" she breathed.

Rhaegar did not repeat himself. She looked away from his deep purple gaze and shut her eyes. "No," she murmured. "No, no, no, no..."

Her eyes flew open and she turned back to him, seeing the boy he once was. "What were you thinking?" she reprimanded him. She jabbed at the book on the table. "Have you forgotten your histories? Who do you think you are, Aegon the Conqueror? He had dragons, and even he did not take wives from competing vassals. The dragons are dead, Rhaegar. You cannot—"

"It is done, mother. And now that I am king it will not be undone."

Rhaella returned to her chambers that afternoon in a daze, hardly aware of where her feet were taking her. Rhaegar’s words rang in her head, pounding so fiercely that it began to ache along with the rest of her body. How long she had been torn apart, worrying that Aerys would turn on Rhaegar and tear their house apart. The Blackfyre line had finally perished after generations, but now it would be her grandchildren who fight one another. If she could just lie down, perhaps when she woke, she would think of what to say to Rhaegar, what could help him see.

As she entered her chambers, a flash of black and silver bounded towards her and threw itself into her chest. She gave a gasp of pain as Viserys wrapped his arms around her. His nurse scolded him as she hurried after him.

“Mother!” he said, burrowing his face into her bosom. “I missed you, mother. Rhaegar is here, did you know? He came to see me. They say he is king now. Is father dead?”

“No, my sweet,” she said, brushing his silver hair from his face. “Come here. Would you like to meet your sister?”

He gave a gasp of excitement and grinned. She saw he had lost a tooth while she was in confinement. She led him to the nursery where the babe slept.

Viserys hung over the cradle, poking the small hand with a finger curiously. “What are you calling her?”

She needed a name fit for a princess. There had been many princesses of the Iron Throne, Rhaenerya who tore her family apart, Rhaenys whose death had saved Dorne, Daena whose defiance plagued House Targaryen for centuries, Visenya who did whatever she could to put her son on the throne, and her, Rhaella, who had done everything that was expected of her. How miserable a name. How miserable a life. She found herself thinking of days long past, when she was a young woman and a new queen. How different King’s Landing had been then, full of lords and ladies and knights and singers, not empty save for the lone pyromancer or sycophant. She had not been quite so lonely then, with her ladies all about her. It had been near twenty years and she could still remember their faces so clearly. Princess Loreza has been older than her, and so much wiser, or so she had thought. Rhaella remembered her cackling laugh and confident airs and the way she could speak multitudes to Joanna Lannister with just one look. She could still remember the envy she had felt and the anger for feeling it. She was a queen, and yet she longed to be them. Joanna had a husband who brought her pride and honor, not shame, and Loreza had all the power of a man and grace of a woman. But most of all, they had each other. Queens could have ladies, not equals. Not friends. _Not you, though,_ she thought, holding her daughter. _You have a princess who can be both sister and friend. You have Rhaenys. And another, the girl by Lyanna Stark. You must be the bridge between them._

“Mother?” Viserys looked up at her expectantly.

Rhaella turned to her son and smiled. “Daenerys.” Princess Daenerys, who stopped a war with a marriage, who quelled the anger of the Dornishmen. “Her name is Daenerys.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woof new chapter, been super busy. 
> 
> So yeah, tried to make Rhaella a complicated human being, with pride being a huge part of what has gotten her through her traumatic experiences, didn't want her to be super meek because I just don't see it, with her asserting herself in the small areas she is allowed (dismissing joanna, crowning viserys). Wanted her to have a good relationship with Elia, but also that Rhaegar is her child who she loves and just like much of Westeros, she sees Rhaegar as the last hope of her dynasty. But since in this AU Jaime saves Elia, I wanted that to hurt just a little bit, that none of the kingsguard saved her, and neither did rhaegar...
> 
> And yeah, rhaegar married lyanna, and to Rhaella that changes everything. Also wanted to slightly address the whole "elia is dornish and so by dornish culture she would be ok with lyanna" by having rhaella have a similar attitude, but even rhaella knows that having a highborn mistress is different than having a lowborn mistress, having a royal bastard with two highborn parents is dangerous (last one was daemon blackfyre) and having a (debatable) royal bastard with each parent from a MAJOR vassal. Even Rhaella thinks that is thirsting for a war, unfortunately between her own grandchildren.
> 
> Next chap we will go back a bit and see what Lyanna has been up to!


	27. Lyanna

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Ah, Arya. You have a wildness in you, child. 'The wolf blood,' my father used to call it. Lyanna had a touch of it, and my brother Brandon more than a touch. It brought them both to an early grave." Arya heard sadness in his voice; he did not often speak of his father, or of the brother and sister who had died before she was born. "Lyanna might have carried a sword, if my lord father had allowed it. You remind me of her sometimes. You even look like her."
> 
> Arya II, _A Game of Thrones_

“Lyanna. Lyanna!” he called after her. 

She only laughed and dug her heels into the sides of her mare, urging her forward. The sand and pebbles skidded underneath her mare’s hooves. She gave a small yelp and pulled up on the reins to keep her horse from losing her footing. When she found she had not fallen, she smiled and looked around. There! The ground looked sturdier over there, more rocks and craggy boulders than sand. She raced toward it, unable to stop smiling. Dornish soil was different than the Wolfswood where she and Brandon would ride. There the earth was packed hard and cold, with thick trees to weave through. Here the land shifted under every step. Yet she was better than she was when they first arrived, and that gave her hope.

She heard a horse approaching so she slowed her gait to turn around triumphantly, but the horse and rider that cantered around the craggy outcropping was not her prince. The man slowed when he reached her, wiping the sweat off his brow.

“Looks like your horse is unaccustomed to the terrain,” he said. Then he gave a half-smile and continued. “Horse and rider, perhaps.”

“For now,” she replied, unabashed. He was from Dorne. He had ridden on sand his whole life. She had just started to learn. She had time, she told herself. 

“I dread the day. How am I to guard you if you can outride me?” he jested, pulling out sack of wine from his pack and taking a drink. He offered it to her, and she took it.

She could hear her name again, and moment later two more figures came trotting into view at the same casual gait she had left them with. 

“There you are, Lyanna,” her beautiful prince said, his long silver hair blowing in the warm wind. Ser Oswell rode beside him, his scaled white armor almost the same as Ser Arthur’s, with two clasps in the shape of bats securing his long white cloak to his back. “You shouldn’t run off like that. What if your horse twisted its leg?”

“Do not worry so far from home. I can still ride this terrain faster than you, Rhaegar,” she teased. He gave a small smile. That was all he gave, sweet, small smiles, so tender she thought it would break her heart. 

Ser Arthur was not listening. He was looking around, as if searching for something. “Your grace,” he said, his eyes still scanning the mountainside. “We should head back.”

“We still have plenty of daylight,” Lyanna interjected. They had only just stopped for a midday meal and it seemed a travesty to turn back already. “Surely we can ride a bit farther.”

Ser Arthur’s eyes flicked from Rhaegar’s to hers and back again. Lyanna could not decide if he was surprised she had interrupted, or something else. He looked apprehensive. “It is not darkness I’m worried about,” he said quietly. 

“Let us ride a bit more,” Rhaegar said after a moment, and Lyanna smiled broadly. 

Less than an hour later Rhaegar decided they should return to the tower, declaring they had ridden far enough for one day. Lyanna rode at his side as they trotted back.

“Is something amiss?” Lyanna asked him. 

“Of course not,” he said immediately, his soft eyes full of concern. 

“Why is Ser Arthur so worried?”

“Ah. Arthur frets like an old woman over things that don’t matter,” Rhaegar replied. 

“They matter to some, your grace,” Ser Arthur replied, his voice politely disagreeing. 

“What things?” Lyanna asked curiously, looking between them as they rode.

“Arthur doesn’t think Elia would take kindly to us being here, in Dorne. He thinks it would be unwise for anyone to find out we are here.”

Lyanna nodded in understanding. Elia. His first wife. His _other_ wife. Lyanna pushed the Dornishwoman out of her head.   
“Don’t worry, my lady,” her prince assured her. “No harm will come to you while you are here. I know Elia better than Arthur. She has a quick tongue, but a gentle heart. Nothing would come of her anger that you need concern yourself about.”

“It is not Elia I am worried about. You may know Elia, but you know little of her brothers, Rhaegar,” Arthur replied. Ser Arthur was the only other person she had heard call Rhaegar by his name alone. She thought of her own brothers, Brandon and Ben back in Winterfell, and Ned off in the Vale of Arryn. She missed them with all her heart. Soon she would see them again, as queen. She didn’t care so much about that, but no one could tell a queen what to do, not her father, not Robert nor Brandon nor anyone. 

She found herself recalling a different time riding, just her and Brandon. He had suggested they take shelter at the nearby seat of House Ryswell, insisting they would get the best food and drink. “The daughter is mad for me, Lya,” he had told her. “I bed her a few times and now she thinks she will be Lady Stark someday,” he had said. 

“She’s mad for your name, not anything else, Brandon,” Lyanna had retorted. 

He only laughed. “Maybe so, but I’m not like to complain, whatever the reason. Barbrey’s nice enough, but lust is unbecoming on a woman. She thinks she’s clever, but she’s fooling herself if she thinks I’d break my betrothal for her. But for now, she’ll be a fine hostess, I think.”

“What about when you are wed?”

“What about it?”

“Would you stop bedding her?”

“Only if she stops taking me. She’d probably just try to seduce Ned. People are mad with envy for the direwolf. Your Robert would take your sigil if he could,” he grinned.

“Do you think Lady Catelyn would mind?” she asked. _Lyanna_ would, thinking of Robert. 

Brandon looked as though he hadn’t even considered the subject. “Why would she?” he shrugged. 

“I would,” she said emphatically. 

Brandon snorted. “Lady Catelyn’s not like you. She brushes her hair, for one,” he joked. 

“Brandon,” Lyanna said angrily.

“What?” he asked, turning to her. 

“I’m serious,” she said quietly.

His face changed when he realized how upset and worried she was. He gave her a soft smile, not like his normal wild grins so wide you could hardly see his eyes. “Lya…you don’t lack for brains, but you’re still as innocent as a child. Who a man beds doesn’t have shit to do with who he weds. I’m marrying Lady Catelyn, that’s what our fathers want. It’s not like I’m keeping a mistress. So long as I make her a Stark, she won’t care what else I do.”

“What about if you loved her, like Robert loves me?”

“You listen to too many songs, Lya,” he said with a smile. “Robert loves you too much to ever think to keep a mistress. When you’re wed you’ll be glad if he beds a few wenches now and again. He has a man’s needs, and you’ll be happy for respite.”

When he saw her face, he added, “Don’t worry. You’re a fierce one, little she-wolf. He’ll be too frightened to be anything but discrete. You won’t even know. C’mon, Lya, cheer up. What does it matter?”

“Because I have to stay faithful, and he won’t!” she said fiercely. “And that’s not fair!”

Brandon had roared with laughter at that. “Little Lya, you think you have a man’s needs? Last year you wanted a sword, now you want a cock as well?”

Still laughing, he kicked his horse into a gallop. “Let’s see if you’re man enough to get Lady Barbrey’s hosting gift!” he shouted back at her.

And that had been the end of that. Seething in frustration, she had spurred her horse after him. The memory still made her burn in anger. She wondered what Brandon would think of her now that she had run off with Prince Rhaegar. She wondered if he would look down on her the way he looked down on Barbrey Ryswell. Maybe he wouldn’t judge her…she had learned from what he had said, after all. She had married Rhaegar, not just bedded him. She was a Stark of Winterfell, not some bedwarmer, and one day she would be queen.

She scanned the countryside as they rode. It had an austere sort of beauty, she supposed. And even in winter it was warm. She thought so at least. She hadn’t even brought a cloak for their ride. Ser Arthur was dressed much more cozily. She had informed him he would not last a fortnight in Winterfell during winter. He had only laughed and said he would not listen to any mockery from her until she visited Dorne in high summer. 

She had come to enjoy his company, and Ser Oswell’s as well. Ser Oswell was near forty, with strawberry-blonde hair that had begun to grey. He had dark eyes and a darker humor that she only saw glimpses of. He had served in the Kingsguard for many years. Lyanna could tell that he much preferred to serve Rhaegar than Aerys, though he would never say as much unless Rhaegar asked. Lyanna wasn’t sure he liked her very much. He seemed to think of her as a distraction that Rhaegar didn’t need. He didn’t laugh at her jests like Arthur did, save once when he was drunk and had taught her how to gamble with dice and sticks. 

Ser Arthur was different. He was gallant and patient and kind, with a wit that reminded her a little of Brandon. Yet they could hardly be more different. Perhaps it was the way he smiled when she teased him. Or maybe it was the way he talked to her sometimes, like she was too young to understand. She had always hated when Brandon did that, yet she found she almost liked it when Ser Arthur did. It didn’t make her mad anymore. It made her think of Brandon, and wonder when she would see him again. Arthur was handsome when he smiled, with his dark hair and his dark purple eyes, but he was not smiling now. He frowned as they rode, occasionally looking behind them as if worried someone was following. No doubt he was thinking of the Dornish princess. Lyanna looked around, wondering if she should be worried as well. 

Rhaegar did not seem worried, but Arthur was the one who knew Dorne. And he knew the Dornish princess. Lyanna found herself wondering if he preferred guarding her to Lyanna. And the princess…what had she thought about Rhaegar running off with her? The thought made her uncomfortable. She hadn’t really thought about it before. And for the first time after all the months of freedom and bliss, Lyanna realized Rhaegar had strayed from his marriage bed the same way she feared Robert would have. Her stomach bubbled guiltily. But it wasn't the same, she told herself. Rhaegar loved her. He would never leave her like he left the Dornish princess. He had married her for duty, not for love, he had told her. All the same, she could not quiet the unease in the pit of her stomach. 

"Rhaegar, what does your other wife think of me?"

"Listen not to Arthur's little worries, Lya."

"What would she think, though, to know you were here with me?"

"What would Elia think?" He asked with the same confusion Brandon had once had, as if he hadn't even considered it. He grew quiet then. Finally he said, his voice full of sorrow, "I doubt she spares me much thought. The children occupy much of her attention. She's a good mother. You are sweet to care for her wellbeing, Lyanna. But I would not trouble yourself over Elia. She's a kind woman, gentle and forgiving. She will come to love you as a sister."

His eyes were soft and his voice so full of conviction that she nodded solemnly. 

He gave a sad smile and said softly, "Lya, what's done is done. What we have done, we have done for love. There's nothing wrong with that. I did not want to cause Elia grief no more than you wanted to cause any to Robert. If Robert loved you, it was a shallow love. He does not know you as I do. Any grief he has at your choice is misplaced, and of his own making. The same is true for Elia. She is a good woman, and it grieves me to think I've caused her pain just as it grieves you. But...well, she's not like you, Lyanna. She doesn't understand me the way you do. She doesn't understand that there are more important things than the crown that is my birthright." 

Her heart grew warm inside her as he spoke. He was right. No one had ever loved her like he had. No one had ever understood her like he had. He always knew what to say to make everything well. 

“Your words could raise castles, Rhaegar. Would that they could grow gardens and I could walk through them all my days.”

“You can ride through them today,” he replied, and then he began to sing one of the songs he wrote for her. He sang them all the way back to the tower, his sad, distant eyes upon the bleak, distant horizon. That night he sang for her again, and afterwards he stared at moon and stars in silence for what seemed like a lifetime, deep in thought. 

His quiet voice woke her from her doze as he said, “I will do many things when I am king. But first I will plant you a garden of winter roses in the red keep, that you can walk through them every day, if you wish it.”

_But winter roses would never grow so far south,_ she was going to tell him. But when he kissed her, she thought that maybe that didn’t matter. 

When her moon blood didn’t come, Rhaegar picked her up for joy. She had never seen him smile so big. Tears welled up in his eyes and he showered her with kisses. “It’s a girl,” Rhaegar told her, his hands on her stomach. “And she will be called Visenya.”

She had never felt so happy, nor so uneasy. As she watched her belly grow, she would sometimes put a hand to it, curiously, wondering how a child could possibly be inside. She had always known she would have children, but somehow the thought seemed like a far off dream, for when she was older. Now she was soon to be a mother, but as she at in the Tower of Joy watching Rhaegar and Arthur spar in the yard, she never felt more like a child. 

She sat alone in her room, looking down below sadly. She had heard that bearing children made women mad, and she was starting to believe it. She felt as if the sun had darkened, yet she could not find the words to explain why. It would have been better if she could ride, but Rhaegar thought riding could hurt the babe. Elia had never ridden a horse while she was with child, he had told her. Lyanna did not think that was a fair argument. Everyone knew Elia had difficulty in birth, and Lyanna did not want to take her experience for her own. But Rhaegar had forbidden it, so she was stuck sitting in the tower with no riding to keep her mind busy. And the more days she sat, the more she found herself missing Winterfell.

She missed the grey walls of the castle and the biting breeze rolling over the hills. She missed the thick fog that rose up from the ground like ghosts, and the quiet of the godswood, and the cool darkness of the crypts. She missed her brothers, wild Brandon and shy Ned and baby Ben who didn’t like to be the baby. She even missed her father. Her father would be less angry now, she thought. He loved her, she knew, in his own way. He only wanted a good match for her. But he had not understood, none of them had, except Ben, sweet Ben. It had been months since she had ran off, and by now her father’s anger with her should have cooled. She would write to him, she decided. Rhaegar had convinced her not to leave a letter. If it was found too soon, Brandon may have been able to stop the wedding. She had thought to write them afterwards, but Rhaegar had told her it wasn’t safe, not with his father still in power. And once they reached Dorne, he feared if she wrote her father, Elia would find out and find them. But she didn’t have to tell her father where she was, she reasoned. She just wanted to let him know that she loved him, and that she had not meant to dishonor him. She would tell him she was married to the greatest match in the Seven Kingdoms, and one day he would be father to a queen. He would like that. 

A servant entered the room to change the linens. She was older than Lyanna, perhaps by ten years, and named Wylla. Arthur had sent for servants from his home at Starfall to tend to their needs, and none of them had liked her. Her serving girls never smiled and performed all their tasks in the most grudging manner. At first she had taken offense, but then she realized they spoke to Oswell with a similar crispness, though not nearly as sharp as hers. To Arthur they spoke like old friends, and a few of them were. One of the stable boy’s father had made Arthur’s first sword and her own maid Clover’s grandmother had been his wetnurse. Lyanna had not been deterred. The cook now gave her extra cheese tarts without even being asked, the stable boy Derris had shown her the Dornish way to dismount from a horse without stopping, and little Nyde showed her how to wash a plate with sand. Her maid Clover still had not smiled, but she had spotted a snake underneath Lyanna’s bed and threw it out the window instead of leaving Lyanna to find it in the night. 

When they found that she was pregnant, Arthur sent for Wylla. She had been meant to be a wet nurse for his sister’s child but the child had been stillborn. Lyanna remembered Ashara Dayne from the Tourney at Harrenhal. Ned had been enamored with her, but nothing had come of that, like always. Ned was too shy for his own good, sometimes. He had a good heart, but he was a second son to his very core, always following Brandon or Robert even if he didn’t like it. 

She found paper and a pen and began to write. _Father,_ she wrote carefully. Then she stopped. She wondered exactly what to say. She stared at the paper for a long moment before she began to write. She could hear the ring of steel in the yard and Ser Oswell’s sharp laugh as her pen scratched at the paper. When she finished, she read over the letter, then took her pen to it viciously and tore it up. Then she began again. 

The sound of steel stopped and she heard voices in the yard, though she could not understand what they said. A distant rumble pricked her ears. Someone was coming. She froze to hear better. From the sound it must be a small party, no more than a few riders. She stood up and returned to the window to poke her head out. She could see dust rising in the distance. That was Dorne, she thought dully. Dust and loose sand where the north had been cold, hard earth and clouds of fog. After a moment she could make out a single rider barreling towards the tower at top speed. For a moment Lyanna was afraid—had the Dornishmen found them? But a single rider was no threat to the finest swordsmen in the Seven Kingdoms. 

“Who comes to us?” Lyanna called down to the men in the yard. Ser Oswell looked up at her from where he was sitting cleaning his blade, then turned to Rhaegar. Rhaegar and Arthur had stopped their sparring. Rhaegar’s helm was underneath his arm, the scarlet plumes brushing the sand. His silver hair was pulled back and slick with sweat. Arthur still wore his helm, but Lyanna could tell that he was speaking to Rhaegar, though from her window she could not make out his words. She saw Rhaegar nod without taking his eyes off the oncoming rider. When neither of them answered, Oswell looked back up to her and called, “The White Bull!”

The White Bull, Ser Gerold Hightower, the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. Had he come with some news, or had Aerys sent him? Lyanna was almost certain Rhaegar did not tell his father where they had gone. The Mad King was unstable and crazy, and prone to distrust everything Rhaegar said or did. But perhaps Rhaegar had told Ser Gerold where they were, and made him vow not to tell Aerys. She rose from the window eagerly to find some proper clothes. 

She dug through her chest haphazardly, tossing garments unceremoniously on the floor. The clothes were folded poorly anyways, so she didn’t concern herself. As much as she loved her company the thought of seeing someone new excited her, especially since he must bring tidings from the world outside their haven. They had been sheltered completely from that world, and it wasn’t the world she was trying to escape from, it was Robert. She wondered what he had done when he found out she ran off to be with Rhaegar. He probably cursed her name and bedded some lowborn girls and a fortnight later found a new girl to pretend to love. 

As soon as she was dressed she dashed from the room and down the steps of the tower. She nearly bowled over one of the servants but she yelped a quick apology and continued down. When she reached the door, she heaved it open and stepped into the yard. Immediately, she raised a hand to block the sun. Ser Gerold had dismounted and was standing with his two Kingsguard brothers and their prince. Rhaegar’s back was to hers, but Ser Arthur saw her. His eyebrows were furrowed and his eyes dark, but they changed when he saw her and he muttered her arrival to the others, for Ser Gerold looked up and Rhaegar and Ser Oswell turned around. Ser Gerold looked exhausted. His hair was unwashed and he had dark circles beneath his eyes. Rhaegar was unsmiling, his eyes full of sadness. Oswell had a deep frown on his face, but Arthur had abandoned the dark look for a rather sheepish one. 

“Ser Gerold. I did not expect to see you here,” she said politely. She smiled, looking from one face to another, hoping someone would tell her what was happening. They were looking at her so strangely, like they had never seen her before. 

“Nor did I, my lady,” the old man replied after a long moment. He blinked so slowly Lyanna half expected him to doze off. She wondered when he had last slept. She saw a boy leading away his horse. The horse looked even worse than its rider, like it was about to collapse and never get up again. She felt a stab of pity for the poor beast.

She waited expectantly for someone to say something, but no one did. She saw Arthur’s eyes flick towards the back of Rhaegar’s head. “Has something happened?” Lyanna asked. “Your horse has seen better days, ser.” 

“As have I,” he replied with a wan smile. His eyes were too tired to smile with it. 

“Lyanna, please alert the servants of Ser Gerold’s arrival. Have them make a room for him, and bring food and wine,” Rhaegar told her. “You must be must be tired, ser.”

She looked at them all suspiciously for a moment, then nodded and retreated back inside. Once she shut the door she stopped and pressed her ear to the crack, yet she could hear nothing but the whistling of the wind. She sighed and called for the servants and went to the room that would be for Ser Gerold. Before long she heard footsteps and Arthur’s voice, and then Ser Gerold and Ser Arthur had entered the room. 

“This looks splendid,” the Lord Commander said tiredly as he surveyed the room. “Thank you, my lady. You are a gracious host.”

“Food will be here soon,” she replied, her hands on her hips. “Where did you ride from, ser? King’s Landing?”

He did not reply immediately. He unhooked the clasps from his shoulders and let his white cloak fall into his hand. Then he sat down slowly in an open chair, his armor creaking as he went. When he was seated he nodded tiredly. 

“Squire?” he asked Arthur. 

“I can help,” Lyanna offered. 

“No need to trouble yourself,” he replied gruffly.

“It’s no bother,” she said kindly. “I know how.”

The tired man conceded, and she began to undo the clasps of his armor. She expected Arthur to tease her, but he just stared unseeingly at her hands on Ser Gerold’s white armor. He made no sound, not even when her hand slipped and she cursed. 

“Careful, child,” Ser Gerold said gently. 

“I know you come from King’s Landing, but do you have any word of my family?” Lyanna asked the Lord Commander. She saw Arthur’s eyes refocus and flick from her hands to her face. 

“What?” she inquired.

Arthur didn’t answer her, but Ser Gerold did. “Sorry, my lady. I just came with word from the King for Prince Rhaegar.”

“From the King? Is he angry with Rhaegar?” she asked as she peeled off his armor. 

“It’s not my place to say, my lady. My message was for the prince.”

“I’m his wife,” she said stubbornly. “We married before the heart tree on the God’s Eye. Did he tell you that?”

“Yes, my lady,” Gerold replied dutifully. “Yet even still.”

She huffed in annoyance as she set down the breastplate. Ser Gerold still had greaves and gauntlets to unfasten, but she decided he could do those himself. 

“Pardon me, sers, I must go speak to my husband, your prince,” she informed them as she strode from the room. Rhaegar told her everything. She wasn’t his other wife. Whatever Ser Gerold had to say Rhaegar would tell her anyways. He should have told the Lord Commander that to save Lyanna time.

“The girl’s fire, no? Princess Elia is much gentler. Like water,” Lyanna heard the Lord Commander say after she left. She stopped. His voice was so tired it was hard to discern if he meant it as a compliment, but she thought not. Anger surged through her veins. 

“Princess Elia has her own sort of fire,” Arthur murmured. “Lyanna is more stone and iron than flame.”

Lyanna narrowed her eyes. Brandon had once told her she was as stubborn as the stone walls of Winterfell. 

“I hope you are right,” the Lord Commander replied, his voice heavy. “For Rhaegar’s sake, and hers.”

Arthur did not respond, so Lyanna kept walking, wondering what that meant. Why had Ser Gerold come, and to what end? She quickened her step to find Rhaegar. She returned to the yard where she had left him, but Rhaegar and Ser Oswell were not there. Two of Rhaegar’s men were saddling horses. She watched as they loaded food into a saddlebag. Then she turned on her heel and ran up to Rhaegar’s chambers, taking the stairs two at a time. Her stomach was not so big yet, and in a moment she was at the top of the stairs. 

She flung the door open and quickly saw that Rhaegar was alone. He glanced up at the sudden noise, but he did not drop the woolen tunic in his hands. 

“You’re leaving,” she said flatly.

“Lyanna,” he said quietly, turning back to his clothes he was folding.

“I’m coming too,” she told him, striding into the room. 

He stopped what he was doing. “No, Lyanna, you cannot ride, not till the child is born—“

“That’ll be months, Rhaegar!”

“It’s not so long. Less than a year,” he put his hands on her shoulders and looked down at her. 

“If it’s not so long, you can wait to leave till I can join you,” she said stubbornly. 

He didn’t have a quick retort to that, so he just sighed and continued folding. 

“Why are you still packing?” she demanded.

“I have to go, Lyanna. As much as it pains me to leave, I cannot wait.”

"Why? What’s happened?"

"My father has need of me. I would be loath to refuse him. He grows more paranoid each day of my loyalty."

_King's Landing._ She had grown weary of Dorne. She had begun to miss home. If she went to King's Landing, she could finish her letter to father and perhaps he could come to court. He just wanted a good match, that was all. Brandon might hate her, but if she wrote to him he wouldn't. He could never deny her anything. And Ned and Ben... 

"Let me come with you. We can take a slow pace."

"No," Rhaegar said quickly. Too quickly. 

"Why not?" She asked. 

"My father will not like what we have done. I will tell him we are wed. When you come to court, his anger will have subsided. I don’t want you to have to bear it."

"I’m not scared of him,” she said, setting her jaw. 

Rhaegar stopped moving, his eyes fixed on the shirt in his hands. “I know,” he said, his voice barely more than a whisper. After a long moment, he turned to her. “When I see you again, no one will need to fear his anger. I will set things right, Lyanna. I promise. Then I will send for you.”

“And when will that be?"

He turned back to the task at hand. "When our daughter is born. It will be harder for him to try to annul the marriage that way."

His words were sweet and sure, but her heart sang a different tune. 

"You promised you would never leave me," she said. And here he was, leaving. Her voice sounded more wounded than she intended.

"I must. I will come back for you. We'll be together again before winter's end. Fear not, my love. I'll leave Ser Gerold in my stead, to guard you."

"A poor replacement," she said with a smile, though she could feel tears in her eyes. He did not return it. He stared at her with his melancholy purple eyes. He reached out a hand and brushed a lock of hair out of her face. She thought he was going to kiss her, but instead he knelt down and kissed her small belly. He stayed there a moment, his eyes shut as if in prayer. 

Before the sun had reached its peak, Rhaegar had mounted his stallion alongside two of his men and with a final somber nod, urged his horse north. Lyanna stood in the yard, staring after him long enough for all the dust to settle. She felt the anger in her stomach, yet she couldn’t figure out who she was angry at. Aerys? Rhaegar? Her father? Herself? All she knew was that it wasn’t supposed to be this way. She had thought she had finally found freedom, but now she wasn’t allowed to do anything because of her stupid belly, not even stay with Rhaegar. 

Her mother always said that having children was the greatest thing that happened to her, but all Lyanna knew was that it was a nuisance. And she hadn’t even dealt with the pain of birth! _You better come easy, little princess, or I swear I’ll only feed you Dornish food,_ she thought to her stomach. 

She looked at the spot where Rhaegar had disappeared and screamed as loud as she could. She yelled until she was breathless. A hawk overhead cawed a reply. She raised her head to find it, and then looked back at the horizon. Rhaegar was gone. He had left her. He had left.

After awhile Ser Arthur came and stood beside her. “Come inside, my lady. There’s a fine meal waiting. You’ll feel better after food and drink.”

Without so much as a glance at Arthur she turned on her heel and strode back into the tower. She could hear him follow, but she ran up the stairs and to her chambers where she slammed the door shut and barred the door. She threw herself on the bed thinking she might feel better if she cried, but the tears never came. She laid there in silence, watching the day turn to night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It’s here it’s here, it’s finally Lyanna! Hope I did her justice. Like many in RR, she has little characterization, and some of it is conflicting, like her wisdom of “love is sweet but it cannot change a man’s nature” but then running off with a married man without thinking about how that makes him a cheater. But, I think it can be rationalized in her head because Westeros marriage is not the same as the modern day conventional marriage for love, so Rhaegar cheating on Elia (who he claims he married for duty) does not imply that he would cheat on Lyanna. To Lyanna, she sees that she is the first person that Rhaegar has truly loved, and vise versa. 
> 
> So, giving Lyanna a voice that isn’t the same of one of the other female POVs in this is important, and I will say that modeling Lyanna off of Arya is a pretty safe bet, so I tried to capture Lyanna’s stubbornness, desire for fairness, ability to make friends with anyone, sass, perceptiveness, etc, all of which Arya has and there is evidence in canon Lyanna has (that’s my father’s man your kicking, teach your squires honor, Robert will never stay to one bed). But, Lyanna is older than Arya, but she is still younger than all the other female POVS in this by a bit, save for Lysa and Catelyn, so I wanted her to have a perceptive mind like Arya, but still feel less mature than say, Rhaella/Elia/Cat. But, Catelyn had a very different upbringing than Lyanna, as the favorite child, as son and daughter, and accepted her place as a woman in a patriarchy, where Lyanna, like Arya, rails against it.
> 
> And of course, before anyone goes about blaming Lyanna for the entirety of RR, let’s remember she is about 14 here, and I really wanted to focus on that the men in her life who love her or claim to love her (her father, Robert, Brandon, Ned) are dictating her life and baffled that she doesn’t like that, and she is just trying to take the reins of her own life. I of course am combining her running away with Rhaegar as a combination of love and desire for freedom. And Rhaegar is offering her the greatest freedom she could imagine, but of course she doesn’t realize that being queen still means she answers to Rhaegar. And hey, if you agree that Doran & Oberyn couldn’t have foreseen what Aerys would do, how could Lyanna have? Clearly Lyanna expects Brandon/her father to assume she ran away because they knew she was unhappy with her betrothal. She assumed that she would be the focus of all their anger. As to whether Brandon realized she went willingly or not, perhaps it didn’t matter to him. All he might see is a man tricking his 14 year old sister, or a prince dishonoring House Stark by interfering in a betrothal is strictly between Rickard Stark and Robert Baratheon. Lyanna is a woman in a man’s world, so when she asserts agency, it makes sense that Brandon would be like “that’s not even her choice, so Rhaegar, the man, who has the choice is WAY OUT OF LINE let’s kill him”


	28. Lyanna

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You never knew Lyanna as I did…You saw her beauty, but not the iron underneath.”  
> Eddard VII, _A Game of Thrones_

Rhaegar had been gone three months now, and Lyanna was restless. Once, she had tried to saddle a horse to go riding but Ser Arthur had grabbed the reins and Ser Oswell had lifted her off the horse as easy as he would lift a child. Afterwards, Oswell frightened the stable boy so badly he was scared to even look at her, much less help her mount. As if she could even ride very far. Lyanna found that being with child meant the need to make water at all the most inconvenient times.

Dorne had lost its savor now that Rhaegar had left, and Lyanna knew she was not the only one to feel that way. Ser Oswell seemed more taciturn than ever and even Ser Arthur, who was from Dorne, acted more sober than usual after Rhaegar’s departure. Ser Gerold Hightower was a solemn man by nature who treated her with patient reprimanding like a tired grandfather might treat his reckless grandson. Arthur seemed to understand her frustration best, even though it was his stupid country she hated. He had told her one evening that when his sister was with child she felt as restless as Lyanna. Arthur had not let her send the letter she had written to her father, saying they would need to ask Rhaegar. She had argued, saying that the letter did not say where they were. Eventually it was Ser Gerold who took her side. He took the letter from her, but months had passed and Lyanna had gotten no letter back, though that was expected. Her father wouldn’t know where she was to reply. 

Lyanna lay barefoot in the dirt and sand, staring at the clouds above. Her only company was servants and guards and for them she had no desire to dress. She wore what should be a loose fitting woolen dress, but over her belly it stretched tight. Not for the first time, she wondered where Rhaegar was, what he was doing, and when would come back to her and save her from this wretched place. By all accounts he should be in King’s Landing, unless King Aerys had sent him elsewhere. He would be with Princess Elia, a voice reminded her. Lyanna knew he loved her, not the Dornish woman, but even still…he had not written to her, save a letter shortly after he left. What if he had decided to remain with the Dornish woman, and leave her here, forgotten? She pushed the foolish thought from her head. She thought of Rhaegar’s smile when he had first spoken to her. _I’ve never seen a mystery knight so beautiful,_ he had told her. _I’m no knight, mystery or otherwise. I’m Lyanna Stark of Winterfell,_ she had replied. _No, my lady,_ he had agreed, examining the painted shield. _But you are beautiful._ The way his eyes had looked when he said it took her breath away in a way Robert’s compliments never had. She had not thought of Robert in ages…the most ardent emotion Robert had ever inspired was guilt at not loving him in return. But Rhaegar, Rhaegar was not just jests and lust for blood and lust for flesh; he was kind and gentle. And when they had wed…the memory brought a smile to her face. Rhaegar would never forget that. 

She wondered what King Aerys and Princess Elia did when he told them of their marriage. Perhaps King Aerys wouldn’t care. Rhaegar said his reactions were unpredictable and that he had never liked his Dornish wife. Aegon the Conqueror had taken two wives, so it was not unprecedented. One wife for duty, one for love, that is what Rhaegar had told her. Rhaegar was back in the city with his other wife, but surely he would not bed her...would he? He loved _her_ ; he had married her to prove it. It’s not as if he could just set Princess Elia aside, even if he wanted to. She had given him two children and her family’s power was not insignificant. To annul the marriage was impossible with trueborn heirs and to divorce her she must needs have some grave sin to sway the High Septon against her. So he had kept her as a legal wife, but surely he would not think to do his duties as a husband. They had never spoken of the possibility before, she realized. She sat up abruptly. 

“Hey,” Ser Oswell said to Ser Arthur. They had been sparring nearby, but they stopped as she returned to the tower. All they did nowadays was spar, and leave Lyanna to her devices. Ser Oswell followed her up the steps to her room. White cloaks they may be, but white shadows would be more apt. After Rhaegar had left, his white knights turned to white gnats, always buzzing about and never giving her a moment’s peace. She shut the door in his face. He could guard the outside just as well. 

A quarter of an hour later she opened the door again and handed him a letter. “Send this to Rhaegar if you please, ser,” she said sweetly. He took the sealed letter with a nod. She returned down the steps, her bare feet slapping noisily on the stone steps. There was no point fretting over Rhaegar’s affections when she could just write him and tell him that they were husband and wife, and that he had no reason to feel it necessary to perform any husbandly duties to his legal Dornish wife and that Lyanna would be most wroth if he did. 

She returned outside. Ser Arthur was sitting on a rock cleaning his blade with a cloth. Dawn, it was called. The ancestral sword of House Dayne, wielded only by those who were deemed worthy in strength and honor. The blade was entrancing, and Lyanna found that once she looked at it, it was hard to look away. She must have made a noise because Arthur looked up at her.

"Here," he said, standing up and handing her the hilt. She looked at him suspiciously, then grinned in spite of herself. She grasped the handle and held it up.

"It's so light," she said, dropping her left hand. She extended her arm fully, yet the sword was not too heavy. She brought it back close, examining the white ripples in the sword. "My father has a valyrian steel sword. Ice. It looks different than this."

"This is not valyrian steel. The songs say it came from a star." 

"It's beautiful," she said as she turned the blade in her hand. Then she added bitterly, "My father never let me hold Ice. Brandon and Ned could. Even Ben. Not me, though."

She made a sharp cut. 

"Careful," he said, leaning out of the way. 

"I know how to swing a sword," she retorted. 

"Doesn't look like it," he laughed. He quickly grabbed her wrist and took the sword from her fingers. "You hold a lance better than a sword, my lady."

She flushed. So Rhaegar had told him about the tourney. Of course he had. 

"Teach me," she said suddenly. 

He cocked his head, his purple eyes squinting in the sunlight. 

"How to hold a sword. Teach me. Visenya wielded Dark Sister. My child is to be Visenya, and she will bear arms like her namesake. If I am to be mother to a warrior, why can't I be as well?"

Arthur gave her a look of pity. Lyanna hated it. 

"Teach me! I beat Ben at swords every time. I can be as quick as any man."

"It's not your womanhood that gives me pause, my lady. My late mother the Lady of Starfall knew how to wield a sword, though she never saw fit to use it. But even she did not bear arms when she bore my sisters in her womb."

Lyanna huffed angrily. "I'm not so ungainly yet. I'm still as quick as ever."

Before he could say a word she broke out into a run. The sand shifted beneath her feet and she found she was not near as quick because of it, but she did not stop. 

"My lady!" Arthur called after her in exasperation. "Lyanna!"

She only smiled and set her teeth together. It did not take him long to catch up to her. She had a head start, and but he was lightly armored, unlike his brothers. He had forsaken his heavy enameled armor for silk and studded leather now that the sun burned warmer. Yet he still wore his white cloak, like always. They were both breathing hard when she finally slowed down. 

"Stupid sand," she said, kicking the loose earth. "Stupid Dornishman."

"Guilty," he said with a smile. 

"Stupid, fat belly," she scolded her stomach. She plopped down on the sand. "I hate it," she complained. "I thought marrying Rhaegar meant no one could tell me what to do. Well, it did, until--"

She pointed at her stomach with annoyance. 

"My little princess. She's so bossy. Always telling me when to eat and when to vomit, and not letting me ride my mare." 

"She sounds like quite a princess."

"You must teach me, Ser Arthur. I'm going to go mad with boredom."

"Is the company of the Kingsguard so poor?"

"Yes," she told him, and he laughed. "And your stupid country."

She threw sand at him and he only laughed again. "Insult me all you want, my lady, but leave Dorne out of it."

"Teach me, Arthur. I'm not asking."

"Lady Lyanna talks like a queen," he said in a way that reminded her so much of Brandon it hurt. 

"I'll be queen soon enough,” she tossed her hair. The effect would have been better if she had brushed it. “You'll want to be in my favor."

He shook his head, smiling wryly. "If you say so, wolf girl. I'll show you how to hold a sword proper, no more—until you've birthed," he said when she opened her mouth in protest. 

And so he did. When they got back to the tower, he found a sword for her, a shortsword that sorely needed to be sharpened. There was no point in her practicing with Dawn, seeing as she would never wield it. He fixed her fingers and moved her wrist with his hand. 

“Slowly, now. No point moving quick if you move wrong,” he told her, guiding her hand. 

“What’s this?” came a voice. Lyanna and Arthur raised their heads in tandem. Ser Oswell had returned. “Prince Rhaegar told us her safety was paramount, and this looks like an accident prone to happen, Dayne,” Oswell said, popping a grape in his mouth then wiping his hands together.

Arthur grabbed the blade with his bare hand to show its bluntness. 

“Dull as my father’s court, I see,” Oswell remarked. Then he laughed. “You would brighten it, Lady Lyanna.” 

Lyanna became aware of how silly she must look, with her tangled hair and bare feet and large belly, waving a sword as slowly as sap dripping from a tree. “When I come to court, these fashions will too,” she replied, and Arthur and Oswell laughed. 

The next week was better, now that Arthur had shown her to hold a sword. He watched her attentively when she had it as if she were a child he did not want to stab herself on accident. He still refused to let her move it quickly, and he took the sword away and made her rest far more than necessary. She argued when he did, but he would just smile and say, “I’m sworn to keep you free from harm, not boredom.”

Soon she was so large he would not let her hold the sword at all. He kept it in his chambers and told her once she had birthed she could have it back. 

“Once I’ve birthed, we shall go to King’s Landing and I shall have a real sword,” she had informed him. 

She had treated him coldly for a few days after he had taken the sword, but he did not relent. He was only doing his duty, she knew. He was just trying to keep her safe, the way Rhaegar and her father had. She wasn’t stupid, though. She could take care of herself. Eventually she spoke to him again, because in truth, the tower was lonely. Ser Gerold was all cordiality and propriety, and Ser Oswell was decent enough company, but something about him frightened her in a way that Ser Gerold and Ser Arthur did not. She enjoyed him when Arthur was around, but when Arthur was not he rarely talked and he looked as if he was enjoying a private joke that made her feel self-conscious. 

"Your mother knew how to fight?" she asked Arthur as she sat in the kitchen, eating a warm pie with her fingers. She was glad Arthur was keeping her company, even though she had not forgiven him completely for taking her sword away. He was not eating. She had already eaten a whole chicken, but she found that growing a child made her hungrier than ever. When she wasn’t sleeping, she was eating.

"She knew how to wield a sword, but she was no Sword of the Morning, my lady. Her place was in command. My uncles were better with a blade than she. My uncle wielded Dawn before me, and guarded her when she led our men in the War of Ninepenny kings."

Lyanna had forgotten how different the laws of the Rhoynar were. Even with brothers, Ser Arthur’s lady mother had ruled Starfall. She imagined sitting in the high chair of Winterfell’s great hall, bossing her brothers around. The thought made her smile, though she would never wish it. Why would she want to sit in the high chair and listen to tedious griping for hours and hours? Let Brandon do that, she thought. She just wanted to ride and swing a sword and explore. 

"Your mother fought in the War of Ninepenny Kings?" Lyanna asked, licking her fingers.

"She was the Lady of Starfall. She felt it was her duty,” he replied, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. “She was surrounded by knights and retainers. I doubt she even unsheathed her sword. She used to say that north of Dorne a man can wield a sword and be named a hero, but if a Dornish woman does people will only say Nymeria was greater."

There was a bitter truth in that, Lyanna saw. People would only ever compare her babe to Visenya. The realm had preferred Rhaenys to Visenya, just as Aegon had. _But Rhaegar chose me._ The realm would love her daughter too. They had to. 

"Says all that needs to be said about how the rest of Westeros sees Dorne," he said wryly.

Lyanna made a face of confusion.

"Nymeria was princess, not a knight. It was Mors Martell who bore the spear, not her," he explained. 

“I didn’t know all women in Dorne bore arms,” she replied. Surely Princess Elia had not, weak and feeble as she was. 

“They don’t all. My mother may have but my sister Ashara certainly does not,” he laughed at the thought. “My baby sister Allyria has a bow she sleeps with, though.”

"If some women in Dorne bear arms, why are there not songs about them?"

“There are,” he replied as if he had not heard her correctly. “Shield of the Tor, the Princess in the Tower, the Three Suns."

She looked at him blankly. 

"The Three Suns?" He repeated, incredulous. 

She shook her head. 

"The Widow's Tears? C'mon, truly?" He sang a few words but stopped when he saw her broad smile. She could see his ears turn red. 

"No, keep going!" She insisted, pointing at him with her greasy fingers. 

"Rhaegar has a voice for songs, not me."

"Rhaegar's not here," Lyanna pointed out. "I should have you entertain me in his place."

"It's unladylike to coat your mockery in honor."

"There is no mockery, ser," she said, forcing her face into solemnity. Reluctantly, Arthur sang his Dornish song about a widow and her seven children whom they called the Widow's Tears, for when her husband died she grew wroth and sent her seven children to bring her husband's killers to justice. Arthur did not sing so poorly as he claimed. 

When he was done she told him so, and added, "I've never heard that song before. I've never heard any of those songs."

"They're Dornish songs. Every child here knows them. But it's different past the red mountains...and tell me if I lie but you folk don't like Dorne too well."

Lyanna felt slightly embarrassed. She hastily tried to think of something good to say about the land, but Arthur only laughed. 

"I'm long past taking offense for such things. Prince Oberyn used to say it's only fitting northerners like you and Ser Gerold and Ser Oswell--"

"Ser Gerold and Ser Oswell are _not_ northerners."

"I meant no offense, my lady. I only meant everyone north of the red mountains." 

She pursed her lips and took another bite. "You were saying?"

"Ah, just something the prince used to say. He would say it was only fitting men north of the red mountains hate Dorne when they have poor taste in song and food and women."

"Rhaegar said that?" Lyanna asked, confused.

"Rhaegar? No, Oberyn Martell, Prince of Dorne. Princess Elia's brother."

Lyanna felt her throat tighten. Princess Elia. She bore the Dornish woman no ill will, but of late she had troubled her thoughts since Rhaegar had left and sent only one letter of his affections...he was back in court with the Dornish woman, but if he had not loved her then, why would he love her now? The way Rhaegar spoke of her she seemed sick and frail, sweet yet simple, and as ambitious as Lyanna's father. Lyanna guessed her sweetness was all lies, beneath it petty cunning and lust for power. She never loved Rhaegar for more than his crown. The Dornish were all snakes, everyone said so. But then she remembered Arthur was Dornish too...

"You were acquainted with him at court?"

"At court? No, from my youth. My sister and I spent much of our early years at the water gardens with him, and Elia as well."

That took Lyanna aback. "You knew Elia?" She blurted. 

"I know her still, my lady."

"I only meant before you had to guard her."

"Yes, my lady," he replied curtly. 

"Rhaegar says she only cares about clothes and balls and what people think of her and about being queen. Was she always like that?"

Lyanna saw a flash of anger cross Arthur's face for a brief moment. "It's not my place to question Prince Rhaegar," he said stiffly.

"You would if he were here," Lyanna replied. 

Ser Arthur's face was stone. 

"Is she not like that?" Lyanna asked quickly, worried. If she wasn't, Lyanna might feel guilty for stealing Rhaegar from her...or if she wasn't, perhaps Rhaegar would just go back to her. 

"She's a good woman. I would not speak ill of her, even if she was not Lady of Dragonstone." 

Lady of Dragonstone. He called her Lady of Dragonstone. "Good enough to forget me for?" She asked. She had not intended her voice to sound so girlish and desperate. 

"Prince Rhaegar has not forgotten you, Lady Lyanna. He loves you like no other. He left three Kingsguard to guard you. Elia does not have three white cloaks, I assure you," his voice was sharp. The hardness in his voice surprised her. He was Rhaegar's greatest supporter in everything, save this, Lyanna realized. Was it that he thought the Dornish woman deserved more, or Lyanna deserved less? 

"Surely that alone is proof of your worth to our prince. So forgive me for not speaking ill of Princess Elia to soothe your worries. It is no fault of hers where Rhaegar's affections lie, nor is it Rhaegar's. Princes nor gods have choice when it comes to love." 

Lyanna had no reply to that. Her throat felt dry as she swallowed. No fault of hers, he had said. The guilt she had tried not to notice burst forth anew, and she felt herself wonder how she would feel if her husband ran off with another woman. It made her think of Robert, not Rhaegar, and suddenly she felt shame and anger and sadness all at once She made a feeble apology and returned to her room as quick as her belly would allow. She lay on her bed for several hours staring at the ceiling wondering if she had made a terrible mistake, and Rhaegar was not there to give his fine words of comfort.

The sun had set and the moon had risen before she rose from her bed. She needed to find Arthur and talk to him. She didn’t know exactly what to say, she only knew she could not stay alone with her thoughts any longer. If Rhaegar were here, she would talk to him, and everything would make sense. But he was gone, and Arthur was the one who knew him best. She would ask him…she would ask him…

The halls were dark and quiet as she walked through the small tower. She saw a flicker of light in one of the small halls and walked toward it. Voices grew louder as she approached.

“She knows something’s wrong. She has not said so plainly, but I can see she fears Prince Rhaegar has forgotten her in favor of Princess Elia. I had thought he would have written to her—”

Lyanna stopped. 

“He has more to concern him than Lady Lyanna’s happiness,” Ser Gerold said plainly. “With Connignton smashed and exiled and Lord Tywin staying silent—it’s grimmer than I’d have imagined. I never thought I’d see a threat greater than Maelys Blackfyre in my lifetime. Rhaegar trusted her wellbeing to us. He does not bestir himself because he knows we will not fail him.”

“Even still…she grows more suspicious every passing day,” Arthur said. 

"Prince Rhaegar said not to say a word, no matter how long he is gone. He doesn't want to upset her. He thinks it could hurt the child," Ser Oswell's voice said. “The princess must be born healthy and kept safe.”

Lyanna held her breath. Had Rhaegar truly left her? 

"I know, ser. I…I only dread the day she learns," Arthur said. “And I feel the day draw nearer.”

"From Rhaegar's lips, not our own. I do not envy him, to share such news," the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard said wearily. "When my sister learnt of my father's death, it broke her heart."

"You do not know Lyanna as we do, Lord Commander. Whether tears or wrath I cannot say...but she will be hard to reason with. She has no patience. No doubt Rhaegar thinks she would try something rash. In that…I think there is truth. He was right not to tell her," Arthur's voice said again. 

"I think the Lord Commander is clever enough to surmise that the girl who left her family and betrothed without a word may do something rash when she hears about a war in her name," Ser Oswell said sardonically. 

_War?_ Lyanna felt her blood turn cold. She could feel a pounding in her ears as she tried to swallow, but she found her mouth was too dry. _In her name?_ She wiped her hair out of her eyes with the back of her hand shakily. She snuck closer, her back pressed against the wall, trying to listen. 

A large object slammed into her side and gave out a shriek. “Milady!” a woman’s voice said hastily. Lyanna massaged her shoulder and saw Wylla’s face in the light of a candle rolling slowly on the ground next to a loaf of bread and an upturned tankard. “Beg pardons, milady, I didn’t see you in the dark!”

The candle flickered out. Before Lyanna could speak or flee, another light appeared behind her. She turned around quickly, her heart beating fast. Ser Oswell towered over her, a candle in his hand that reflected in his dark eyes and cast deep shadows on his face. He stared at her wide eyes and white face. 

“Fuck me,” he said under his breath. His eyes grew dark and annoyed.

She stared up at him, shaking in fear. She took a step backwards, her bare foot stepping in the spilt ale. Arthur’s head poked out from the small hall.

“Oswell?” he said. Then he saw Lyanna and froze. His mouth was open slightly in astonishment. Lyanna had come to apologize to him, or something of the sort, but she couldn’t remember now. She looked at his face and saw surprise, fear, then shame. He had been her friend. He had—she had thought he was her friend. Her fear turned to anger, quick as a winter storm blows in from the north. 

“You liar!” she spat at him. Then she looked up at Ser Oswell. “War? What war?”

Oswell looked down at her, unmoving. 

“Tell me!” she commanded. “I heard you! You said there was a war. What war? Who’s fighting?”

Ser Gerold was in the doorway now beside Arthur. His gray hair glowed silver in the firelight behind him. She stared at him in realization.

“That’s where Rhaegar’s gone. Isn’t it? He’s fighting,” she spoke softly, staring at Ser Gerold. Then louder she demanded, “Who is he fighting? 

Gerold took a step forward, his hands up. “Just...calm down, my lady—”

“Don’t tell me to calm down,” she said incredulously. “You all lied to me. Rhaegar lied.”

Rhaegar lied. _Rhaegar lied to me,_ she thought, confused. He wouldn’t. But he did. Why—why would he lie to her? He…he…

“He’s...he’s dead, isn’t he?” she said, tears springing to her eyes. _No. Don’t cry. Starks don’t cry. It’s too cold for tears._ “That why he hasn’t written?”

“Prince Rhaegar is fine, my lady,” Ser Gerold said gently. 

“You’re a liar. I can’t trust anything you say,” she snapped. She felt a kick in her belly and put a hand to it instinctively. “A war. It’s Robert, isn’t it? He wants me back?”

The three white cloaks were silent. 

“Tell me!” She slammed the palm of her hand into Ser Oswell’s unarmed chest. He swayed slightly but remained unmoved. Her hand stung from the impact. She pointed fiercely at Ser Arthur and Ser Gerold. “Tell me! Who is fighting? Tell me the truth!” 

Her words rang through the hall, echoing eerily on the stone. Ser Oswell turned his head slightly, and Ser Arthur’s eyes flicked back and forth between Lyanna’s and the Lord Commander’s, waiting for him. The White Bull’s face was stone, and for a long moment he did not speak.

“The hour is late. You should get some rest, Lady Lyanna. We can speak in the morning,” he replied evenly. 

_No._ She grew black with rage. She stared at him with gritted teeth and nostrils flared wanting nothing more than to hit him so hard he feared her. She balled her hands into fists and opened her mouth and let out an ear splitting shriek so loud the three men grimaced. Oswell put his hands to his ears. 

“Lyanna, please,” Arthur shouted, but she just looked at him with fire in her eyes and kept screaming. 

None of them made a move to stop her. She took a deep breath and screamed again. She could feel her head grow dizzy it was so loud. 

“My lady, we meant no disrespect,” Ser Gerold shouted. 

“Then tell me the truth! Why did you come here?” She asked Ser Gerold ferociously. 

He opened his mouth but did not speak immediately. He seemed relieved she had stopped screaming. 

“I swore a vow, my lady,” he said gently. 

“To lie to me?” She raged. 

“To keep you safe,” Arthur said. 

She stared at them, breathless. To keep her safe. She put her hands on her stomach as she panted. 

“I know there’s a war,” she breathed. “Tell me who is fighting! Is Rhaegar safe? Is my family?”

No one moved or said a word, not even Arthur. She could see his jaw locked tight. _Who were these men? They had been kind to her. And Arthur, he had been her friend. Hadn’t he? Just as he was Rhaegar’s. Rhaegar…_

She turned around and ran back to her room as fast as she could. It was not very fast, now that her stomach was so giant. 

“Careful! Not so fast!” Arthur shouted after her. 

“Damn us,” Oswell cursed. 

As she waddled quickly up the steps a strong hand grabbed her arm. “Lyanna!” Arthur said. “Careful.”

“Do not touch me,” She wrenched her arm from his grasp and continued up the steps. 

“Lyanna please, be reasonable,” Arthur implored her as he chased after her into her chambers. “This is why Rhaegar didn’t want to tell you, he feared you would do something—“

Arthur’s voice died in his throat. She perched herself on the sill of her window, looking down on the sand far below. The cool breeze bit at her gown and whipped her hair around her face. She stared at the ground, watching transfixed at the sands shifting in the wind. She wouldn’t even have to jump, just one step and down she’d go. Goose pimples sprung up on her arms and legs. 

“Lyanna,” Arthur said tentatively.

She snapped her head around. “Don’t come any closer!”

He stopped moving and put his hands up in placation. 

“Who’s fighting?” she demanded as Ser Oswell and Ser Gerold appeared behind him in the doorway. Arthur put a quick hand out to stop their entry. “Tell me!” 

Ser Oswell’s eyebrows rose as soon as he saw her, but Ser Gerold face was unperturbed.

“Just...come down from there, my lady,” Ser Gerold said gently, in the same calm manner he would talk to a frightened horse. 

“No,” she said breathlessly. She glanced around at the outside, then back at the three white gnats. “You’re sworn to protect me. Tell me the truth, or I’ll jump.” 

Silence followed her proclamation. She could hear nothing but the sound of the wind sweeping over the sand below and shifting her dress with its fingers.

“Lord Commander?” Arthur said uncertainly, not taking his eyes off her. 

“You don’t want to do that, my lady,” Gerold said. “Think of your child.”

“Stop! Stop!” She shut her eyes. She did not want to hear a single word that was not the truth she asked for. “Who is fighting? Tell me true, or when I find out I will kill myself!”

She was breathing heavy from all the shouting. She stared at them fiercely, wondering if they had truly sworn to keep her safe. 

“The realm.”

Ser Gerold’s voice was calm and quiet. Oswell’s eyes widened in surprise. Lyanna felt her heart drop. 

“The realm? Everyone?” She breathed. She didn’t understand. Rhaegar had lied to her. How could he hide a whole war from her?

“More or less,” Gerold replied, his voice so quiet she had to strain to hear. 

She swallowed and readjusted her sweaty hand. “I don’t—I don’t understand. I’m—I’m nothing to the realm, Robert, yes, but the realm? My brothers—who’s fighting who?”

Her heart knew the answer before Gerold spoke.

“The Vale, Trident, Stormlands and the North all rebel against the crown.”

“What? Why? Why would my father war against the crown? I chose Rhaegar, not Robert.”

A long silence filled the room. 

“Why?” She demanded.

“They thought you were stolen,” Gerold finally said. 

The babe lurched in her stomach. “What?” She breathed. Stolen? No, no, no—she ran away, her father was going to be angry that she ran away. She said desperately, “Then—what—what are we doing here? I wrote my father—I’ll write again—why didn’t Rhaegar just tell everyone? He didn’t need to fight my family! He just needs to tell them! Tell everyone!”

“It’s far too late for that, child,” Gerold said gently. “Now be a good girl, and come down.”

Lyanna stared around pleadingly. “We have to stop this, before—” before Brandon kills Rhaegar, she thought. He doesn’t know, and Rhaegar would never hurt Brandon, he wouldn’t, would he? The wind snapped her dress. Her heart beat at the inside of her chest like a war drum. What had they done? 

“Just sit down, Lyanna,” Arthur said. “Please. Stay in the window, if you wish, just sit, please, I beg you.”

“Just let me write to my father, I’ll tell him I married Rhaegar of my own volition. He’ll understand, I’ll make him understand—“

“Alright, we’ll get pen and paper,” Gerold said in appeasement. “You’ll have to come down to write, my lady.”

She stared at the old man warily. “Have you told me everything? All your secrets?”

The old man blinked and nodded. 

“You’re a liar. Your word means nothing. But mine…mine means everything,” she said, her voice like a whip. “I swear to you by the old gods and new, if you’ve lied to me, I will find out, whether tomorrow, or a fortnight or a year, and I swear to you, I will take my life and the whole realm will see your white cloaks stained with my blood.”

Oswell looked at Ser Gerold. Arthur’s eyes were wide, his face white. She turned around and looked at the night sky. “Did Robert kill Rhaegar?” She asked softly. 

“No.”

It was Arthur’s voice this time. “Have faith in your husband, my lady. Rhaegar will not be so easily killed.”

“Have faith,” Lyanna said bitterly. Tears leaked from her eyes and she was powerless to stop them. “He lied to me! And now—Brandon will try to kill him, I know it—“

And Rhaegar would die, or Brandon would. The only way to stop this madness—her madness—was to write to her father and tell him the truth, to write a hundred letters—a thousand—to all the lords of the realm. She squatted carefully down to dismount from the window. Otherwise something terrible would happen, something that was entirely her fault—

Her sweaty hand slipped on the stone and Lyanna felt herself reel back into the abyss. She shrieked and grasped for the hard stone but her hands found flesh. Strong arms pulled her back into the room. Arthur plucked her from the windowsill as Gerold slammed her window shut. 

He held her like he would hold a babe, even after Ser Gerold shut the window. The lord commander called for a servant. 

“We’ll move her to the ground floor,” he said gruffly as if she weren’t there. 

“I need to write to my father,” Lyanna said into the room.

“There are no bedchambers on the ground floor, Lord Commander,” Oswell replied, ignoring her. 

“Then we’ll board up the window and watch her day and night. A maid can sleep with her.”

“Let me down,” she demanded. “Arthur, let me down. I need to write my father.”

Arthur was not quick to obey. He held her in his arms and looked down at her with a pained expression. “Lyanna...we promised truth. Truth is a bitter draught. You promise to not hurt yourself when you drink it?”

“What is your truth? Tell me.”

His purple eyes looked at the scene about them. She could feel her heart beating loudly in her chest. She could feel her heart everywhere—in her throat, in her stomach, in her arm. Then she realized it was Arthur’s heart she felt. She gave a quick intake of air, staring at his face, at the dark stubble and the lines about his eyes, searching for an answer. He grimaced and then looked back at her. “Your father...he...he is dead, Lyanna.”

“Oh,” she breathed softly, her voice cracking. Her breath felt shallow. Father, she thought. How...he couldn’t... “Oh.”

She looked around, confused. Servants were in the room now, obeying commands dealt out from Ser Gerold, though what the commands were she could not say.

“In battle?” She managed. _No, this isn’t what was supposed to happen._

“In...” his voice trailed off. “He did not die alone, Lyanna.”

_Father._ Lyanna looked up at him, her face shining with tears. She took small breaths, trying to steady herself.

“Your brother Brandon—”

“No,” Lyanna wailed. She felt her chest collapse. “No! Brandon?” _How could this have happened? How could Brandon be dead?_

“I’m sorry, my lady,” she heard Arthur say as if from far away. 

_Brandon. Father._ She blinked rapidly, trying to understand. Her chest heaved painfully, as if threatening to tear her gown in half as she struggled to breathe. Her body shook, biting dully into Arthur’s studded jerkin. She gasped for air—she could hear Arthur talking to her but the words were like drops of rain on a puddle. All she heard was a ringing in her ears, louder and louder. Ding. Ding. Ding. The sound of a hammer on an anvil. They couldn’t be dead, they just couldn’t, Rhaegar had promised everything would be fine, that everything would be good and safe, he had read it in a prophecy. _Our daughter will save the realm,_ he had told her. He had dreamed it. But the realm was at war and Brandon—Brandon—

“I’ve killed them,” she sobbed. “What have I done? Brandon. Papa.” 

She felt herself be laid down carefully on her bed. She curled up into a ball and cried. Tears and snot ran from her face freely. Arthur was saying something, and a servant too, and someone laid a blanket over her and placed a hot towel on her forehead. Her eyes shot open when she felt the warmth and she sat up quickly, the child within squirming. She kicked off the blanket ferociously and threw the towel on the floor. The maid cried out in disapproval, but Lyanna ignored her. They were comforting her. They had lied to her, and yet they were trying to comfort her. She screamed in rage, so loud her throat hurt. Yet her anger left as quick as it came. _What right do I have to be comforted? What right?_ She covered her face and wept.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can't think of anything to say right now, so thanks for reading.


End file.
